Getting Beautiful

Music thumped from the door and light spilled from the windows and flooded the sidewalk. Inside, tattooed hair stylists swarmed like bees around the heads of their partially shorn clients.

I’d had my hair cut in California before leaving on my must-become-fluent campaign in Italy. Tonight emboldened by my language successes and shocked by my shaggy reflection in the salon window, I decided to brave a haircut.

Three chairs sat side-by-side in front of mirrors angled against orange-tinted walls. American rock-and-roll blared from over-sized speakers. I squeezed past a mix of stylists and clients, and presented myself to the receptionist. “Vorrei fare una prenotazione per un taglio,” I said. But she answered, pointing to the just-emptied chair, “No appointment necessary, we can take you now.” Yikes, right now? I thought, but I said, “OK.”

I told her I wanted “stripes of color.” You mean colpi, she’d said. You know, like colpi di fulmine. I understood lightening bolts, and wondered what I was getting myself into.

She seated me and then introduced me to Danilo, my parrucchiere. Tattooed stripes wrapped the length of one arm and flowers cascaded down the other; he stood behind me and asked what I’d like done, lifting and shaping my hair with his hands. I answered his reflection in the mirror, colpi di sole e una spuntatina—highlights and a trim.

Then he sent me off with his assistant. She washed my hair, applied conditioner, and left me seated at the washing stand. I wondered if I’d been forgotten. I watched Danilo attend to a raven-haired beauty, apparently an actress on her way to an audition. After he cut her thick bangs, he straightened her long hair and let it spill from her crown like a waterfall.

I worried they’d slipped clients in front of me. I worried I’d sit wet-headed forever. But I worried for nothing.

While Danilo worked magic on the actress’s hair, the conditioner had worked its magic on mine. The assistant returned and led me back to Danilo’s station. While I watched in the mirror, he painted my silky locks from one, then two, then three bowls of dye. When he finished, he left the chemicals to process.

My energy waned but Danilo’s remained high. When he returned to check my hair color, he announced that my hair needed more contrast, a darker color to intensify the highlights.

I wanted to protest, I wanted to say the color was fine, but I lacked the polite words I needed to get my way. With a wave of his tattooed arm, he sent his hovering assistants scurrying for bowls of color. With another wave of his arm, he painted again.

Three hours after I’d entered his world, Danilo released me from his care. I slipped from the throbbing salon into the silent night. At home in my bedroom, I turned on the light and stepped in front of the mirror. I was beautiful.

About the Author: Bonnie Smetts first fell in love with Italian when she decided to take a few classes before visiting a friend who’d moved to Umbria. Five years later, she’s studied all the grammar, read stack of classics, and participated in myriad conversation groups. The time has come for her to be fluent in Italian.