Peluquería

A little bit of triviality for today. But no less an adventure for being trivial. I told this story to Joshua and Profesora Viviana for my 10-minute presentation today. I told it to them in Spanish, but I’ll spare you and tell it to you in English!

I put my language skills to a real-life test yesterday afternoon when I visited the hairdresser, or peluquería, nearest to Convento San Francisco. I had asked Fray Rodrigo about two weeks ago where I could find a good haircutter nearby. He told me about a place on Calle Bolívar in the middle of the block between Calle San Martín and Calle 25 de Mayo. But he cautioned me that it was an expensive haircut—30 bolivianos. Thirty bolivianos? That’s little more than four dollars. Where I come from, that’s an unheard-of bargain. Even the haircuts at beautician schools cost at least five dollars. The only way to get a cheaper cut is to do it yourself. I was sold.

And yesterday I finally made time to go. It was about time, too. My hair does not grow long quickly, but it gets really thick, hard to run a comb through. It adds extra time in the morning to wash all that hair and dry it well, the longer and thicker it gets. So, though I prefer having heavy, wavy hair that gets tousled in the breeze, I opted for practicality—I need to shave off minutes as I freshen in the morning. 

Nervously, I stepped into the doorway of the salon. Four women were at work; one was dressing a woman’s hair, and the other three were kneeling before the feet of three woman clients. I wasn’t sure if this was a unisex salon, so I asked if they serve men, too. Yes, of course, one replied. And I looked at the name of the salon: D’El y Ella (Of Him and Her). Duh. So, okay, I entered. And, wondering if this was the very same place of the 30-boliviano cut, I asked how much for a cut. Sure enough, it was 30 bolivianos—40 bolivianos if you also wanted a wash with the cut. No, thank you, just the cut. So far, so good. I sat down and waited 10 to 12 minutes until the woman getter her hair dressed was done. 

Now came the test. Could I explain what I wanted? I had written down some crib notes, offering what I supposed were the correct commands. Just to be sure my language would not foil me, I brought a photo, too, showing exactly how I preferred my hair to look. (See my profile picture to the right.) Do it like this. Don’t touch my beard! Shorter, please. Keep the ears covered on top. Please thin the hair. Things like that. I can’t take it for granted, as in English, that the things I say are the things that the other person receives. And really you can’t take it for granted even in your maternal tongue. In communication, in the signal-to-noise ratio, there is always more noise than we realize. So it was an act of faith to give these commands and hope that I would receive back what I said. 

Well, when all was said and done, I got the cut in the style I wanted. It was short enough, but not so short as to make my head feel bare and cold. It was thin, but not too thin to embarrass me. I will return to D’El y Ella sometime in June for another weeding of the thicket that is my hair! Gracias por el buen consejo; thanks for the good advice, Fray Rodrigo. 

Why do I share this triviality? This short story goes a long way to demonstrate, first of all to myself, then to others, that I can function in Spanish in everyday life. I think I am at the point and almost past the point where I can travel extensively in Spanish-speaking places and handle the ordinary situations a tourist or visitor has to negotiate. In other words, I have reached one plateau of this never-ending mountain. But this is not enough for me. I want, and I need, to speak well enough, and be literate enough among Spanish speakers, to minister with them. So there are greater heights to scale. Yesterday, I visited a place where, figuratively and literally, they anoint your head and wash your feet. Tomorrow, I want to create a place where, figuratively and literally, I anoint the heads of others and wash their feet. Today, I am in between those places.