Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

One of my many brilliant pre-Portugal reinvention plans was this: I would grow my hair long.

Not just long. Portuguese long. The kind of effortless, sun-kissed, beachy hair that appears to have been blessed personally by the Atlantic Ocean. I imagined myself wandering through vineyards in a linen dress, tossing luxurious waves over my shoulder while locals nodded approvingly and whispered, "There goes a woman who has her life together."

This was going to be part of my new Mediterranean identity.

Unfortunately, Portugal had other plans. Specifically: humidity. And soft water.

Together, these two innocent-sounding forces transformed my hair into something resembling a damp bird's nest that had survived a small electrical fire.

Every morning I would spend twenty minutes blow-drying, brushing, styling, and applying enough hairspray to qualify as a chemical hazard. Then I'd step outside.

Thirty minutes later I'd catch my reflection in a shop window and discover I looked like a mildly distressed duck.

My glamorous vineyard era was over before it began.

Clearly, it was time for a haircut.

How I Chose My Salon (A Masterclass in Poor Decision-Making)

My first choice salon looked perfect. Beautiful Instagram photos. Hundreds of glowing reviews. Recommended by every expat woman within a fifty-kilometre radius.

Naturally, they were fully booked for three weeks.

Now, a sensible person would have waited. A patient person would have waited. A woman who wasn't constantly collecting material for The Art of Making Life More Complicated would definitely have waited.

Instead, I panicked.

I found another salon with over one hundred positive Google reviews. One hundred people can't be wrong, I thought.

Reader, they absolutely can.

The moment I walked through the door, I sensed something was different. The salon itself was tiny, yet somehow contained approximately the population of a small village.

People were getting haircuts. People were getting manicures. Someone appeared to be eating a full hot lunch. A child was running through the middle carrying what looked suspiciously like a bread roll. An elderly lady sat in the corner watching everything with the authority of a Supreme Court judge.

At one point, I became genuinely unsure who worked there and who was simply visiting relatives. It felt less like a salon and more like a family reunion that happened to include hairdryers.

I was told to sit. No coffee. No consultation. No "What are we thinking today?" No discussion of face shape, texture, lifestyle, or emotional readiness. Just sitting.

Eventually, a stylist appeared. He spoke no English. I speak approximately seventeen words of Portuguese, twelve of which relate to ordering pastries.

We stared at each other. He stared at me. I stared at him.

Then, like every foreigner who has ever found themselves trapped by a language barrier, I reached for my phone.

I proudly presented a photograph. A simple dark blonde bob. Nothing dramatic. Nothing experimental. Not a mullet. Not a mohawk. Not "surprise me." A normal haircut. The sort of haircut that exists primarily because nobody wants to talk about it.

He looked at the photo. He nodded. I nodded. And at that precise moment, I unknowingly took the first step towards yet another chapter in my lifelong pursuit of making ordinary situations unnecessarily complicated.

Continue reading → Communication Breakdown (With Bonus Dehydration)

— Kasia