Communication Breakdown(With Bonus Dehydration)

The stylist nodded at my photo.

Excellent, I thought. We've achieved understanding.

We had not.

He disappeared.

I waited. And waited. And waited some more.

The salon was approximately the temperature of a greenhouse dedicated to growing tropical fruit. Nobody offered me water. Now, experienced salon-goers will know that this is a warning sign. A good salon offers coffee. A great salon offers sparkling water with lemon. This salon offered uncertainty and dehydration.

Eventually, after losing what felt like half a litre of body fluid through panic sweating, I asked for water myself.

I received a small plastic cup that suggested hydration was considered an optional extra.

Then Came the Hair Dye Preparation

And it went on. And on. And on.

At one point I seriously considered leaving. Not dramatically. Just quietly slipping out and pretending I'd never been there. But I stayed. Because hope dies last. And because I'd already invested too much emotional energy into the situation.

A recurring theme in my life, and indeed in The Art of Making Life More Complicated.

Finally, the dye went on. Still not a single meaningful word had been exchanged.

Then my stylist vanished again. Not because he was taking a break. Not because he was checking his phone. Because he was simultaneously servicing what appeared to be the entire population of greater Lisbon.

I watched him bounce between clients with the speed and agility of a caffeinated octopus. He blow-dried one woman. Trimmed another man's fringe. Mixed colour for somebody else. Shouted something into the back room that may have been salon-related or may have been about lunch. Then disappeared entirely before reappearing behind me as if teleportation had become part of the service.

I was both impressed and terrified.

Delegated to Someone Who Was Clearly Busy Elsewhere

Eventually it was time to rinse the dye. Rather than doing it himself, he handed me over to another woman. Now, I don't wish to make assumptions about anyone's role within the salon. But judging by her level of enthusiasm, I suspect washing hair was not normally among her responsibilities.

She was deeply engaged in a conversation with her friend. Whether they were discussing a wedding, a family scandal, or a wedding scandal, I cannot say. What I can say is that I seemed to be interrupting it.

She gestured vaguely toward the sink. I sat down. She continued chatting. I continued wondering whether my scalp would survive the experience.

Hair in My Handbag and a Small Identity Crisis

Then things became truly surreal.

While I was still wandering around in a bleach-fume haze, my stylist gave my chair to another man. Not a different chair. My chair. The one containing my handbag, my phone, and the last remnants of my trust.

The man sat down confidently, as though he'd owned the chair his entire life. His haircut began immediately. Tiny snippets of freshly cut hair floated gently onto my belongings. Nothing says "luxury salon experience" quite like carrying a stranger's DNA home in your tote bag.

Meanwhile, the atmosphere around me continued to deteriorate. A woman nearby was loudly complaining that after more than an hour, her hair looked exactly the same as when she arrived. Another foreign woman had the expression of someone who had just realised events were no longer under her control. She looked like a contestant in a reality show called Guess What Haircut You're Getting. I felt an immediate sense of sisterhood.

The Reveal

And then came the grand finale. The colour.

Reader, it was not dark blonde. It wasn't even particularly close to dark blonde. Instead, I emerged with hair that could best be described as "brown-ish with surprise auburn." The auburn highlights appeared to have been added by fate itself. I certainly hadn't requested them.

The reference photo and the final result had only one thing in common: both involved hair.

Still, thanks to my freshly acquired Portuguese tan, I didn't look completely tragic. Which, under the circumstances, felt like a significant victory.

Lessons Learned (The Expensive Way)

Now, in fairness, this was a Brazilian salon, and perhaps some of the differences were cultural. Maybe they're used to different hair textures. Maybe their regular clients enjoy a lively, bustling atmosphere where multiple beauty treatments, lunch, family visits, and life advice happen simultaneously. Maybe that's part of the charm.

But as a Polish woman raised on the comforting belief that appointments should involve chairs, communication, and occasional reassurance, I left feeling slightly traumatised and significantly more auburn than expected.

"Don't book the first salon with one hundred good reviews just because you're desperate. Don't assume a nod means understanding. And never, under any circumstances, assume someone will offer you water."

Ask early. Ask often. Bring your own bottle.

The Upside? Excellent Material.

One day I will find my perfect Portuguese hairdresser. A magical professional who speaks enough English to understand "dark blonde," provides water without negotiation, and doesn't allow strangers to shed hair onto my handbag.

When that glorious day arrives, I promise I'll share their details here.

Until then, I'll continue treating relocation as the adventure it clearly wants to be. Sometimes the challenge is bureaucracy. Sometimes it's finding a house. Sometimes it's opening a bank account. And sometimes it's walking into a salon and leaving with a completely different personality.

As I've learned repeatedly, moving abroad isn't really about making life easier. It's about finding exciting new ways to make it more complicated.

— Kasia