A Hair Cut

I had been meaning to get my hair cut for months. Nothing exciting, I just had. The only reason I had been putting it off was because I hadn’t made the time and I had been searching for the place with the best deal.

I finally found a place out by where I work with a welcoming set-up and was boasting prices I could afford. A 17 Euro hair cut was the cheapest I had seen on my various attempts.

The day that I decided to get my hair cut was the day I left my house for work on my bike while the sun was still shinning. When I left work three hours later I still had a bike, but the sun was not shining. Yes, this is partly because it was setting and partly due to the cloud cover. All of this would have been acceptable, normal even. But on this particular evening the sun’s rays were not visible due to the presence of a cold, albeit light, rain. Naturally, the spitting drops only seemed to have any dampening affect when I was biking, which was the whole time.

Thank goodness I had a hood.

I decided that the rain was tolerable enough to not abandon my plan for getting a hair cut. It was about 5:30 pm when I finally made it to the hair salon. I locked up my bike and strolled over to the hair saloon. I legitimately looked like something the cat had dragged in.

My pant legs were wet, especially the thighs; glasses were fogged and dotted in rain; jacket was wet and glittering with unabsorbed raindrops. But, the reason for which I was at this hair salon was becoming more and more apparent as I tried to smooth down the rather ridiculous hood-hair I had acquired from my biking in the rain. I am certain the hair stylists were eyeing it excitedly, just itching to snip off the knotted ends.

I was instructed to shed my jacket, have a seat, and get ready to wash my hair. It seemed almost a silly idea to be washing my already damp hair, and yet they did.

Now in my opinion there are few things more relaxing than having someone wash your hair. I suspect some people get this sort of satisfaction from years of endless meditating or performing complicated and mind-expanding yoga. I, however, receive this euphoria when my head is in a hair-saloon sink. The long nails, warm water, soothing head massage, and fragrances of shampoo are enough to put me into a mindless state of relaxation. When the lady had finished, I was reluctantly pulled back from the world of mindless ease and oneness with the head-bath, to that of well, a hair salon.

I sat down in the chair in front of the mirror and began to explain in my academic Italian how I would like my hair cut. I realized that my knowledge of Dante was not really going to help me explain layers and trims. I turned a slight hue of scarlet as I realized I was sounding more and more like a fool. After hand gestures, incorrectly used words, and finally a magazine photograph the lady had an idea of what it was I needed.

As I sat there looking in the mirror I realized what a lovely dark, red-brown my wet hair seemed to be. Well anyway, to most people it would have appeared a “lovely” color, but to me, who has always been a golden or dirty blond, was more inclined to see it as an “abominable” transformation brought on by the severe lack of sun. As I was be-mooning my new rich brown hair color, the lady made the first cut.

I have never really been nervous cutting my hair, but I had asked her to take off a significant amount of mine, and when I saw the first cut my heart paused a full two seconds. I think my eyes widened and I am certain I got goose bumps. The last of the remaining scarlet in my cheeks from embarrassment drained. I realized at that moment that I was going to have shorter hair than I had had in over a year.

The more she cut the more I realized how short it would be. But, I also became more relaxed as I realized she was cutting off all the tangled nasty ends I had been attempting to brush for months.

She finished the cut, layers, and bangs swiftly and skillfully. She pulled out the dryer and began to dry my hair. She asked me to lean forward and look down so she could dry by hair from underneath. Similar to the way I might dry my hair in the morning, but nothing like the way I have ever had my hair dried in a salon. I was trying not to snicker.

She finished the rest of the drying with my head in the normal up-right position looking in the mirror. My new, shorter, nearly weightless hair was a bit startling, and a little disconcerting. I realized that I had cut off the last of the California, sun-bleached blond hair. It was sad but true. I felt as though I had made a transformation into being just that much more Italian. My gray, brown hair looked healthy though and so I was pleased.

The lady then pulled out a brush and asked me something in Italian. I was not sure what she meant, but it seemed as though she wanted to brush my hair. I told her with a smile that that would be nice. She then began a long process of drying and brushing my hair into smooth styled segments. It was absolutely gorgeous when she was done. But, it was not free.

My new beautiful healthy hair was worth more than I was expecting. A lot more. What had been a determined attempt to find the cheapest haircut turned into quite the expenditure. I paid 17 Euro for the haircut, as planed. But I paid another 18 Euro for the brushing/styling/drying part she had so kindly asked if I wanted. It was a good thing I had come directly from work that day. I used my earning to pay my bill. It was almost as though I had never gone to work that day.

As I was leaving, she looked at me and out the window and asked if I had an umbrella. I looked at her with a pitiful expression and told her that I just had my hood. Her expression was nearly indescribable. It was a look akin to mournful. As though a composer was forced to hear his opus performed by a tone-deaf orchestra. She had just done a marvelous job with my hair and I was about to walk out into the rain and ruin it all. If only she had known that I was also going to get on a bike and bike through this rain to get home.

By some miracle, my hair still looked almost as perfect as when I left the salon even after being under a hood, in the slightly heavier rain, while being subjected to the wind speed of my bike. It most certainly turned out to be worth the money.

Now I know: when the hair lady asks me if I want anything else, say no. If I say yes, it should not be raining, I should not be on my bike, and I should be going somewhere to show it off.

When faced with an Italian Snowstorm

My best friend since I was born has been studying in Dublin for a month and a half now. At the end of January she managed to get a flight to come see me and we arrange to go snowboarding for my cousin’s birthday.

After negotiating transportation and finally arriving together at Varazze train station, Sergio picked up Emma and me. We went out for some dinner and had a great time. I was the translator and we laughed and talked and caught up after way too long of not talking.

Then, after a rather stomach-curdling ride back home—Sergio was taking the hair-pin turns and narrow streets at tire-screeching speed, probably showing off for Emma—we arrived home and got ready for bed.

Early the next gray and gloomy morning we got up, arranged to drive up to Prato Nevoso to go snowboarding. We had to stop to get party provisions—it was Sergio’s birthday party after all. We met up with two more friend and all crammed into Sergio’s car.

We finally got up the hill to go snowboarding and only to find the visibility near non-existant. It was snowing and foggy. We could not even see the ski lifts from the parking lot.When we got to the ski lifts, we could not see most of the hill.

So what do you do when you find yourself stuck in a snowstorm? Well you go geat a drink obviously!

We spent the better half of the afternoon in a bar, drinking a beer or two and eating. We laughed and joked and made quite a raucous. Emma and I had an opportunity to catch up and Sergio and I had an opportunity to bond. Anyone who was there, unaware of Sergio and my relationship as cousins, might have suspected we were an item. We shared our sandwiches, joked, threw a few punches, and had a grand old time.Then the boys went and played "billiards." Emma and I talked and talked and laughed and talked.

After that we decided it was time to head to our various hotels. Maybe take a nap before getting ready for the night. Well, the minor hotel crisis had put Emma and I at a hotel down the hill a ways. And by a ways, I mean like 30 minutes by bus on a narrow, windy, snow-covered road. It was nothing of extraordinary consequence, however, because there was a shuttle that would take us from the hotel back up to Prato where the party would be that night. So we were not concerned.

The shuttle ride was un-eventful, even though the snow was still coming down. We made a few friends on the shuttle and discovered they were going to be in the same hotel as us. We parted ways to take our naps.

After napping, Emma and I got all ready to go out, came down the stairs to see when the next shuttle would be, only to discover that it had just left and was full. But, the friends we had made on our way there came down the stairs only a few minutes later. We were all in high spirits, excited about the night to come. We sat and talked with them, waiting for the next shuttle. They both knew a bit of English, especially the guy, and so that made it easier for Emma, and fun for all of us.

Still snow, lots and lots of snow.

After an hour we began to get antsy, realizing that the shuttle was not coming back any time soon. We were also all hungry. Next door there was a pizza place with such a tantalizing smell poring through its doors that we decided to follow our noses. The two Italians, Emma, and I sat at a table together and swapped interesting stories and phrases. It become more and more apparent that the excessive snow (which had not let up all day) was creating problems for transportation up the hill. The shuttle driver had stopped answering the various people’s calls to pick us up. Some people were getting incredibly frustrated. We all just wanted to get to the party for which we had already paid.

Emma and I just sat back and relaxed. We decided it was not worth the stress to be concerned. We were together, talking, laughing, and being overly entertained by our new Italian friends.

We turned in early and decided we would just snowboard the next morning.

At about seven the next morning, my screechy alarm went off reminding us that we wanted to snowboard that day. I opened the window slightly to see if the snow had let up and discovered a winter wonderland. There was easily 4 feet of snow on the car roofs, and still more was pilling up on top. No sun, but lots of fresh beautiful snow!

We did not know how the busses might work, so we decided to ask the lady at the hotel. She was little help and rather tired of people expecting her to know how the busses worked. We started asking around.

We learned that a bus passed by and that if we went out to some un-designated area we may be able to catch it. The directions and instructions were all rather hazy and un-helpful. So, we asked a friendly man if he was going up the hill and if he had space in his car for us and our few bags. He said that if he had space he would be pleased to take us up the hill. About 30 minutes later he was ready.

He asked us to grab our stuff, and his 6 year old boy looked at his dad with a shocked expression, “What are you doing?”. His dad said that there was nothing to worry about; if we were not nice girls then he would just kick us out. This made me snicker as I explained it to Emma.

This man turned out to be our hero of the day. He had a nice large car, snow tires, four-wheel drive, and knew how to drive in the snow. This road, covered in snow, and still more snow coming down, was made more perilous by the presence of hair pin turns, stupid drives, busses, and snow plows. But, even when the car would not necessarily take to the road, this man knew exactly what to do.

All the while, the man was asking us about why Californian’s were up skiing at Prato Nevoso. He was also asking his son to use as many of the words in English as he could remember. It was absolutely adorable. I guess Emma and I turned out to be nice girls because we never got kicked out of the car.

Emma and I made it up the hill, safe and sound. The snow was still coming down hard, but it was only about 10:30am and the visibility was better than the day before. We had a ski pass and decided it was worth it. We figured we could get in a few good runs before 3pm. We rented gear and took off. Shortly after we realized just how COLD it was and Emma decided she need to get some goggles after all.

So by about 11:30 we were actually set up and ready to go. And boy did we go. Emma went through the initial shock of the strange atomized ski system that I experience my first time. Prato is actually a huge mountain, but do to poor visibility we decided to stick to only one run that day. We must have gone about 50 times. By 1pm it felt like we had spent an ENTIRE day on the hill. There was no line, hardly any traffic on the hill, and a fast ride up. We estimated that we were doing the whole up and down in about 8 minutes or less. We were loving it.

The fresh snow made us feel more confident and less afraid of falling. We even tried a few jumps. The first two times I tried, I chickened out and so fell into the soft snow and had to scoot my way out of the hole I made. But the last time I managed to rock it.

At about 2pm we realized that at the top of the lift we could see next to nothing. So, it was time to turn in. That, and we had a train to catch.

We met up with Sergio and his friends. Sergio apologized profusely for the fact that we ended up at a hotel so far away and couldn’t make it to the party. I told him not to worry, we still had a great time and got to go snowboarding.

We drove down the hill at a crawl because Sergio was terrified, the snow was STILL falling, the ground was slippery, and the chains weren’t helping. I was beginning to think we were not going to make it to the train station in time. The snow was falling nearly the whole car ride, admittedly it was more like a light sleet at the end, but nonetheless falling. I figured we had to be a ways away from Varazze if the snow was still coming down. And then we rounded a corner, and I saw a huge flying cruise ship. I was completely perplexed until I realized that it was floating on water and we were closer to Varazze than I was anticipating.

We got to the train station and dropped off Sergio’s friends. Sergio thought it would be great fun to start wrestling with me, but I quickly showed him I was a worthy match. We called a truce, but then he threw a snowball at me (there was at least 5 inches of snow on top of his car). I chased him around for a few seconds and then decided that was silly. I ended up getting him back when he was pretending to be sad about something and I was telling him he was a poor dear, my hand on his face, and then I “smacked” him. After that we had a truce.

Emma’s and my train was not due for another 45 minutes, so we went to get some pizza. At this point I had a bad stomach ache, but I figured it was from all the snowboarding, tight pants, not having eaten real food all day, and the like. So we ate some dinner. We went to the station to discover that our train was not going to pass through Varazze due to a strike. Sergio was so kind and said he would just drive us to Genova.

Well the whole ride Sergio and I talked and joked. I was doing everything to take my mind off my massive stomachache. I figured I just had not had enough water or that I was over-reacting and it would go back to normal in a little bit. We pulled into the station and I realized that what felt like a normal tummy ache from over exertion was much more—more like the flue.

Emma went home that night. I went back to Varazze, sicker than I have been in years. But, still full of all the great memories of that weekend.

Though the plan for the weekend had been, snowboard Saturday, party Saturday night, wake up late Sunday, take the train back Sunday night, we end up doing a bit of the opposite. And I learned one of the best ways to pass my time in a snowstorm, eat, drink, and be merry!

Aperitivo

I was talking to my parents the other night, and like any good parents they were worried about my health and lifestyle. I mentioned that I had gone out dancing all weekend to celebrate my 28 on my Dante exam (this is equivalent to a very high A), and my Dad asked me if I was a party girl now.

This made me laugh, as I associate the expression “party girl” with one who goes out and becomes nearly incapacitated from drinking, then goes out dancing, and in every sense of the term goes wild. I assured him that this was NOT what I was out doing. I told him that I simply enjoy an aperitivo at about 7 and then I like to go out dancing afterwards (best way to burn off the glass of beer or wine).

My dad sounded concerned when I used the word aperitivo. I realized that there is no English translation for such a wonderful, eating, drinking, cultural phenomena. His perplexity and concern were obvious. Not knowing what an aperitivo might be he, as any concerned father might do, assumed some unsavory scenario.

Aperitivo, however, is nothing to cause alarm. In fact, it would be wonderful if the US incorporated something similar for college students. It may cut down on excessive partying and help students enjoy social drinking, not drinking to get drunk.

But, as I was saying, aperitivo is simply one of the best ways to have a drink and a dinner with friends. You go to a bar (which in Italy could be anything from an American style bar to and American style café) and you order a drink. Depending on the place you go and the drink you order your aperitivo can range from 5 to 7 Euro. But none of this is what makes aperitivo as fantastic as it is.

When you order an alcoholic drink, then you are welcomed to a delicious buffet of various Italian treats: pizzetta, pasta, riso, cuscus, inselata, and so much more. Each place has its own layout, its own dish style, its own atmosphere, and its own price system. Some nights, you can eat a scrumptious meal for only 5 Euro, and that includes your glass of beer or glass of wine.

Then, hours later, we head out dancing full, happy, and surrounded by good company.

After my explanation, my Dad relaxed. The potential evil was really just a wonderful way to eat delicious food for reasonable prices. And my Mom, well she took to this idea with enthusiasm, telling me that I would have to take them out for an aperitivo when they came to visit.

So when in Italy, especially Bologna, I highly recommend going out for an aperitivo at least once.

Groundhog Day

On February 2, 2011 at 7:20 EST, Punxsutawney  Phil, the weather forecasting groundhog of Punxsutawney Pennsylvania, climbed out of his hole and reportedly did NOT see his shadow predicting that winter has ended and spring is on its way. Well, at least if he was not such a famous groundhog he would have climbed out of his hole. But, since the tradition of Groundhog Day and the founding of The Punxsutawney Groundhog Club in 1880’s, Phil has lived the life of no ordinary groundhog. He in fact lives the luxurious life of a pampered star.


When and why has Groundhog Day become such an important part of American tradition? It has its root with the Pilgrims. To the Pilgrims, it appeared that the animals had a certain time in which they would wake up from a long winter’s hibernation, emerge from their homes, and determine whether or not winter has truly passed. The groundhog was one such noted animal.


The tradition says that when a groundhog would emerge from his hole after winter hibernation he would look for his shadow. If it was a sunny day and he saw his shadow, the groundhog would take that to mean six more weeks of winter weather and crawl back into his hole to sleep some more. But, if the day was cloudy as he climbed out of his hole, then he would not see his shadow. He would take this as a sign that spring had arrived with nicer weather and happily stay above ground.


According to an old English song:


    If Candlemas be fair and bright,
    Come, Winter, have another flight;
    If Candlemas brings clouds and rain,
    Go Winter, and come not again.


In this tradition, every year, the nominated groundhog Punxsutawney  Phil uses his powers to predict if winter has truly passed and we can anticipate the spring, or if we are in for another six more weeks of winter.


(Thanks to http://www.groundhog.org/ with the official web site on Groundhog Day.)