The Haircut

I have gotten my hair cut in a myriad of American cities since moving to Spain.  NYC and Boston are staples, also Philadelphia, San Francisco, Austin.  No longer do I hold allegiance to a particular stylist, someone who might know me and my idea of self presentation. A person who can recognize when I’m happy to have a conversation or when a hangover means I just need to sit in the chair and not talk. These days, the only real prerequisite is English. Not that I haven’t tried getting my haircut in Spain.

In fact, that grand effort was made during the first three months of life in Madrid.  A generous colleague made an appointment for me with her hairdresser – and agreed to meet me at the spot on the appointed day and time.

Ready for a Spanish language challenge, I did my due diligence before the appointment. I wrote explicit instructions in Spanish for the hairdresser – committing to memory the words for what I wanted (en punto) and, more importantly, what I did not want (en capas, flequillos, color permanente.)  I printed photos of celebrities and models.  I practiced the speech.

Let it be known that the majority of Spanish women have the. most. beautiful. hair.  And seemingly without effort.  In fact, they probably wash their long, thick, nutrient-rich hair every single day and swoosh it to the side between cigarette drags and espresso shots.

Ah, the relief to meet my colleague at the hair salon that day. But, of course, nothing went as planned. My rehearsed speech received quizzical looks. Handing over the slip of paper, it is inspected like hieroglyphics.

And then – as if I wasn’t there – a conversation in rapid Spanish ensues.  Literally and figuratively, over my head. For ten minutes.  Finally, my colleague pats me on the shoulder and walks out the door.  Sinking in the chair, the smock suddenly a suffocation device, I realize there is no way was any of this could go in my favor.

I wore my hair in a ponytail (coleta) for about three months after that – trying to hide my chemically altered, red-ish, dramatically layered hair.  Next to nothing could be done about the bangs.

How do you find the city?

Right before I left for Madrid, over drinks in Cambridge, a friend of a friend leaned towards me and said You may come back to visit but its not going to be the same.  Whether he meant that Cambridge (Somerville, Boston) wouldn't be the same or that I wouldn’t is difficult to tell.  But, of course, the truth is both. Thus it was interesting to have two English friends (who don’t know each other) come back to Madrid recently for a visit.

Neither had been in the city for close to two years; both had lived here happily, as one tends to do in Spain. As someone interested in how others exist in the world, it was a good time to ask my friends whether they thought Madrid had changed since they’d been gone.  Because, when returning to a city that you have physically left behind, for one reason or another, it is easier to see the things that have changed and those that have stayed the same.

The answers to this question are actually pretty standard lately.  Madrileños seems a bit more serious than they used to be.  There are more people in the streets asking for help and selling small items like packets of Kleenex.  The metro costs more.  Yet, there are still plenty of patrons in restaurants; and small businesses and boutique stores are popping up all over the city.

But similar to how Alain de Boton’s friend asks about his new girlfriend “But tell me more about this Chloe… what is it that you see in her?” (Essays in Love 11:3), what I am really asking with the How does Madrid seem to you question, is What do you see in it?

And that answer is quite telling. Claire and Olivia each came to Madrid under different circumstances, had a relationship with the city, became new selves, and then left for different reasons.  Claire returned to London with her husband because that is the truth of sabbaticals and temporary work stints in beautiful, sunny countries.  Olivia packed her bags and headed to Madrid Barajas airport with a one-way ticket to India.

In coming back for a visit, they each saw the same physical Madrid: the cafes and bars, the streets and romantic buildings, friends.  But how they interpreted that was undoubtedly different.

More than the fame variety

Fifteen minutes is really no length of time.  There’s nothing substantial that can be done in 15 minutes so… if I am at work and have to be somewhere in 15 minutes, the gut reaction is to read through emails.  Delete a few, respond to the easiest.  When not at work, look at the smart phone.  There are lots of 15 minutes in that thing. Walking down the street the other morning, I glanced at my watch.  Fifteen minutes until I had to be somewhere.  I hastened.

Nothing like “fifteen minutes until” to produce a nice panic.

But as I (speed) walked, I passed bar after bar of people taking their morning coffee and breakfast, talking in groups or leaning against the counter with a newspaper.

This is the thing that Spain keeps teaching me again and again.  My habit of rushing is just that – a habit.

In fact, quite a bit can be done in 15 minutes so long as it is recognized for what it is. A period of time.

So often we give ourselves away (for free) to any bidder and our time loses worth.  When we take it as our own, even a small span like 15 minutes can do so many things – it can help us regain perspective and composure, and set the tone for the rest of the day by completing a task, reading an article, calling a friend, writing down our goals (okay, or the to-do list.)  Or by having a cup of coffee to stave off an artificial rush.

So, in I go to get my own cup of coffee and to peruse the news.  The coffee is gulped down in just seven minutes.  Time to spare!

Apparently this sort of thing takes practice.

What to do about an earful

Imagine this: I was in New York last week and everyone was speaking English.  Everyone and the radios and the TVs too. And this was my struggle, because sometimes understanding the language is more of a dilemma than one might think.

You see, Spain has spoiled me.  In a world where I am not fluent in the language, there is no need to multitask hearing.  Sitting in a coffee shop in Madrid, for example, there is undoubtedly a nearby table overcrowded with gossiping señoras – ladies adept at speaking and listening simultaneously at high volume.  Under normal circumstances, I’d high-tail it out of there (unless making a racket myself) but because of the speed and exuberance of what’s coming out of their mouths, I can stay put.  There’s simply no chance of my being distracted by the conversation.

The same ignorant bliss cannot be found in the US.  Often, the only thing I can focus on in a Manhattan restaurant is the couple down the length of the bar who may or may not be on a date.  Or, drift an ear left and there is Suzy who is having an issue at work.  Her boss doesn’t know how to manage and what’s worse is she had to leave early today to bring one of her kids to an afterschool class.  And did you see the new little shop around the corner?

Now, the first few days of this are fantastic.  I suppose I’m nosy.  But after awhile, taking in – and investing in – so many conversations, often while listening to the radio or TV news programs and carrying on a conversation myself, is too much of an earful.  It all turns to brain buzz.

There is always noise pollution in cities, Madrid and NYC alike. Buses rumble past and taxis honk while we wait for the walk sign to turn green.  In our apartments, music from the upstairs neighbor floods the stairwell and trucks bang down the street with deliveries.

But the spoken word is so much more than byproduct noise.  It is something that comes from within us and moves towards someone else.  It is how we understand one another; so how can we make sure it has a chance in such a noisy world?

My Spain, where language noise goes through a filter, cannot last forever.  Eventually I’ll learn Spanish.

Next stop China?

Change, not just for moving forward

Ever been to U.S. Northeast? The weather comes at you sideways. I’m not trying to be deep here. I mean, quite literally, the weather – whether it be rain, snow, sleet, hail – hits you in the soft spot like some kind of flanking maneuver. During a Nor’easter, you’ll find people walking the streets with umbrellas open and parallel to the ground – shielding not their heads but their belly, their left side, their right. Because, mind you, the precipitation is in attack mode and it is sneaky. It changes direction without warning and mere mortals are forced to walk folk-dance style with the umbrella to the right, swing it to the left, spin around and shuffle backwards, lean into the wind, twist to the side. Concentrating on the final destination is difficult enough, let alone getting there calm and dry.

It’s enough to make you hate the weather or love the weather or harbor conflicted feelings about the weather. It’s enough to make you talk about the weather all day every day.

And that’s what we tend to do in places like New York and Massachusetts, talk about the weather. In Madrid, people say que tal? and keep on walking. Americans say What’s with this weather?! and keep on walking.

In Boston or NYC, you will – without a doubt – have at least one conversation a day that includes something of the following: Crazy weather today, huh? Pretty cold out there! So hot! When is this rain going to leave us alone? And thankfully,  What a beautiful day!  Then we progress into comparisons to yesterday, last season, last year, tomorrow. Perhaps it’s a reflex with us in the Northeast, a conversation crutch. But there’s good reason. The weather, I tell you, is a controlling manipulative friend that we love to hate.

In Madrid, however, it’s always a beautiful day. Always with the sun shining and maybe that one stray cloud happily floating about the blue.

But, it does rain in Madrid every once in a while and this week is proof.

Maybe it’s just me, but Madrileños actually seem excited to be going places in the rain.  Such a day brings smiles and puddle jumping.  There are even shops dedicated solely to the selling of umbrellas.  And Wellington boots! (If you are from England, do not look at the price of wellies in a Madrid shop. Just. don’t. do. it.)

So often we appreciate that which is not so frequent in our lives.  Is this just about variety? That old catch 22. To enjoy something so much that you want more until there is so much that it can no longer be seen.

Of course, we cannot control the weather but it serves a decent example. People in sunny climates love the random rainy day, those living in cloudy weather appreciate a spot of sun – and often we return to our natural weather state more content.

Traditionally, we think of change as that which propels us forward. An agent that takes us from one state of being to another. The transition often implies a point of no return, personal growth that does not revisit its former self.

But, change is more versatile than that. Yes there are those big signposts, like a career change or buying a home or losing a loved one or finding a loved one. But there are also smaller changes that are just as important; slight, subtle shifts that don’t push us forward but preserve our ability to see the joy in those things we want to keep constant.

So Madrid, how about that weather, huh?  Seems like we’ve bypassed autumn altogether this year and are headed straight to winter. Maybe it will snow!