We spent our first few months finding dog sitters, dog groomers, babysitters, daycare, where to buy paint, trash cans, ant killer, rugs, Duraflame-like lighters so I could stop using matches to light my stove, birthday candles, kids clothes, light bulbs, lamps, a toaster, a mop, and a vacuum cleaner. Finally, my last and final frontier to step over into the world of the Dutch service sector: a hairdresser. It seems simple, enough, but it is not. My friend who lives in
My hairdresser at
home: he’s my college roommate’s uncle,
but he treats me as if we were family.
He went to my college graduation.
He took me from brunette to blonde years ago and we’ve never looked
back. He performed miracles for me and
my bridesmaids’ hair when the Louisiana
100% humidity was upon us on my wedding day. This man has heard countless
dramatic stories about work, love, family, and friends as I sit in his chair.
This man knows me. He also understands that I default to
him. I’m a CPA and I’m okay with
that. HE is the hair professional. I sit in his chair and say “Oh, whatever you
feel like today, just make me look pretty,” and he does.
I peruse the Expat
website and find that there’s a hairdresser highly recommended in Haarlem ,
a town outside of Amsterdam . In April, 3 months after my beloved last
visit to Uncle Oscar in Dallas (and probably at least a few weeks overdue for
my roots), my husband makes me an appointment and we drive the 30 minutes to
Haarlem on Good Friday, the kids in the backseat. We’re already running late because, well, we
have two kids under two and then the GPS tries to direct us down a street that
has been blocked off as pedestrian only.
I’m starting to stress as we maneuver the car through a market and I
realize there’s no hope of getting any closer via vehicle. This is it.
I kiss him goodbye and with little piece of paper in hand, I jump out of
the car while memorizing his verbal directions as the horns honk on the
cobblestone road behind us. I high-tail
it through the market and pedestrian footpaths and I find it: Toni and Guy, my destination. I open the door, flustered and 15 minutes
late. The concrete steel grey interior
of the salon is bathed in an industrial light, and every employee is dressed in
black. I am SO out of my element. I tell the receptionist my name, apologize
for my misunderstanding of the pedestrian-only streets and she leads me to my chair. She kindly asks if I’d like something to
drink, perhaps a tea or cappuccino, and I nod a thank you and pick out a tea
bag from a large wooden case. I am
introduced to the woman who is in charge of the highlights. She’s tall with dark flowy hair, dark eyes,
and bright red lipstick. She is Dutch
and speaks superb English. In her Dutch
(direct) way, she tells me that we will have to hurry because I was late. I apologize again and explain the GPS mishap,
but she is less impressed than the receptionist, who didn’t seem to mind too
much. I mention that I had gotten her
name off of an Expat message board and she admits that she had a lot of Expat
clientele. “Oh yes, I’ve seen all SORTS
of horrible circumstances come through that door. Horrible. It’s amazing what some of these Dutch
hairdressers will do. But I fix all
their problems,” she says, with a wave of her hand. “You are used to highlights using foil,
correct?” she asks me. I’m still
processing the ‘horrible circumstances’ comment, but manage to mumble a ‘yes,
foil” in confusion. What are the other
options? Reading my mind, she explained
that some Dutch hairdressers use a “board.”
I don’t know what that means. And
I don’t really care to find out. This
girl, whether intentional or not, is dishing out a scare tactic, ensuring
herself some long-term job security, and I’m buying it hook, line, and
sinker. She continues, “What type of
shampoo do you use?” I swallow. Oh
goodness. This is a trick question that
I don’t even know enough to be able to lie and give a good answer. At home, I used Toni and Guy, actually. But I haven’t seen Toni and Guy products
since I’ve been here, not even in this Toni and Guy salon. I panic and just tell her the truth. “Dove,” I mumble. She frowns.
“Well, you know, you have to be careful with those products. They can strip away your highlights,” she
says tactfully. I sip my tea and I miss
Oscar. I miss the fact that he knows I’m going to be 10 minutes late
for every appointment I make, and will always show up to his salon panicked and
apologetic. He doesn’t ask me silly
guilt-ridden questions about my grooming habits; he’d rather know what the
latest gossip is. I miss the fact that I
know where his salon is and it
doesn’t require a 15-minute sprint down cobblestone roads. He gives me a glass of wine when I arrive. After the highlights and the rinse (another
girl is in charge of the hair rinsing process), I am introduced to the person
in charge of haircutting. I’m starting
to feel like a Chipotle burrito or something.
But I don’t doubt. If this is
what it takes to avoid hair-disaster in this country, okay. She’s an American and she has a voice of a
yoga instructor. I ask her suggestions of
what to do when my family visits Paris
and she says she could spend days in the Louve, just looking at art. I giggle at this, thinking of spending hours
on end at a museum, just breathing in the beauty and swallowing the information
around me. It is clear. None of these people have children. I don’t even think they know a child. I used to be oblivious, too. But seeing as this is the longest I’ve been
out of my house by myself since I had arrived here, the out-of-my-element-feeling-continues-to-rise. I ponder briefly about the professional
career I left in the U.S.
but yet how vulnerable I feel now in a strange country without a stroller in
tow. I shake myself out of my daze. Her voice is soothing and beautiful, and in
the end, she makes my hair look and feel fabulous. I’m pleased with the result and buy a
ridiculously expensive bottle of shampoo on my way out.
Two months later,
it’s time for another visit. V makes me
another appointment and this time, I’m going to take the train. I’d taken the train in The Netherlands by
myself when we had visited years ago.
I’ve even ridden the train in Paris
and Tokyo solo when I worked at AA. Now that we live here, sometimes I feel like a version of myself that's been Xeroxed too many times.
You can see the outline and know it used to be sharp and clear, but now,
well, it’s just a little grey and there’s some dust in the picture. V writes down the times for the train and the
platform. I walk briskly over to the
station and as I approach the top step of platform 5a, the 10:28 train pulls away.
That’s okay. Geez, it looks as if
it’s only 10:26 , according to the
clocks, I wonder if they’re running a little early. V had written the next train, just in case,
which would still get me to Haarlem
with time to spare. I needed to catch
the 10:42 train. A train pulled up at 10:38 . Oh good,
this must be it. I jump on, proud of
myself for being proactive and I sit. I
brought a book, but I’m too anxious to read it so I just look out the window. I pass through fields of farmland but the
peaceful countryside does little to calm my nerves. I have only ridden the train a handful of
times since we’ve been here, and unlike most subways, there are no
announcements or maps above the doors for you to track your progress. I start to panic when I see the Kyocera
building. This doesn’t look right. Finally, finally, a voice comes on and says –
Amsterdam Schiphol
Airport Haarlem ,
complete with a tiny man with a construction hat on. Fabulous.
The direct route, which looks like it’s the distance of a centimeter, is
under construction. I’m panicking
because I know the salon is going to call my husband’s cell phone. No one is going to know where I am and to top
it all off, these Toni and Guy girls are never going to want to see me again
and I’m going to have horrible hair for the next two years. I’m about to cry, but the tears just won’t
come. The Me Party I’d been looking
forward to for weeks – the Me Party where my husband gave me some money, kissed me goodbye and told me to have a good time - the Me Party where I have the day
to myself, got a fabulous haircut and strolled around the women’s clothing stores
at my own leisure, was gone. All the
attendees for the Me Party had gotten lost.
I race around and find an information booth. With my biggest sorority girl smile and
confidence, I walk up and ask, “Could you please tell me how to get to Haarlem ?”
(I’m sure I even added a head nod in there)
The printer is having trouble printing my directions. She’s humming and tapping on the
machine. The people behind me start to
get impatient, “Excuse me, may I ask you a question while you’re waiting for
that to print?” they ask anxiously. Her
smile flips upside down. “NO!” She shouts.
“NO you may not! You may not ask
me a question, I am waiting on HER.” It
was nice. Thank you, fake flag-girl
smile, or rather. . . maybe she just likes doing that to people because she
can. Dutch authorities are confusing to
me.
I get my directions. I have to connect to get to Haarlem . I’m not scheduled to arrive there until 11:42 , and then, it’s probably a 10 minute
walk from the station to the salon. I
race around and discover the long-abandoned pay phone booths. I frantically start shoving Euro coins into
the machine and dial the Toni and Guy number.
I don’t know what I’m doing wrong, but a Dutch recording is playing. Apparently this lady is very pleasantly
explaining to me that the stupid phone is just going to eat every coin I feed
it while refusing to connect my call.
Cha-Ching! The phone eats 3 or 4
Euros before I decide it is pointless. I
feel so defeated, alone, and confused. I’m
about to give up. I want to go home and
be doomed to highlights gone wrong for the next two years, but I don’t even
know what train to take to give up and go home.
I’m not going to stand in the information line again. I decide to take the train to Haarlem
and try to save face. I’ll walk to the
Toni and Guy and apologize. I have the
scene in my head: “I’m sorry, I know there’s nothing you can do for me today,
but I apologize for wasting your time, it was not my intention.” And then I just walk out. I don’t know if there’s a penalty fee for
canceling on an appointment. I hope
not. But yes. That’s what I’m going to do.
I arrive at Toni and
Guy 40 minutes after my original appointment.
The salon is almost empty, unlike my previous visit. I deliver the script and to my surprise, they
take pity. Well, at least the American
does. They say they can fit me in and
they call my husband (whom they had called previously) and told him I was
okay. I endure the typical small talk
questions such as “So, how are you adjusting to the country?” as if it wasn’t obvious that I’m
struggling, and more tedious personal hygiene habits questions. The Dutch highlights lady seemed pleased with
my response to the “How do you blow dry your hair?” and she had already given
me the appropriate response last time to “How often do you wash your hair?”
I arrived safely and
without drama back to Leiden and
later that evening, we biked the family over to the shopping district to
comparison shop the cell phone options. 6:30 p.m. was hardly the ideal time, but
Thursdays are the only evening the shops are open past 5, Saturdays they are a
zoo, and Sunday they are closed. As I
fed my children their dinner in the stroller, my husband negotiated with the
salesmen and we left with a cell phone and plan. The rain started to pour as we attached the
stroller to my bike. My perfectly and
expensively styled hair-do didn’t even last 3 hours. As I pedaled home, squinting through the
raindrops, I decided that perhaps, it was time to go back to my natural hair
color. I’m looking forward to my visit
to Oscar in Dallas during the
holidays. I think he can help me. So if you see photos of me in 2013, don’t be
surprised at the brunette looking back at you.
I’m not sure if blondes have more fun in The Netherlands, anyway.
I AM STRESSED JUST READING THIS.
ReplyDeleteAt least now Oscar knows that his challenge is a cut/color requiring little to no maintenance over a period of 3-6 months. Sounds like MY hair! Heh.