THE INNER WORKINGS...

recuerdo: the bowllet

I really shouldn't be writing this. If you don't know why, just look at the last post. But I've had enough of long words and long lectures... plus, I have got to tell you about my new haircut. Which only naturally leads to telling you about my old one. Trust me, you're not going to want to change the channel. Nothing can be so compelling as recounting a good story of a not-so-good coif.

I'll tell you the punchline first: I'm no longer allowed to carry scissors within ten feet of any mirror. Because I just can't help myself. I have no self control. As hard as I try, I can't help but maim any decent (or indecent) hair cut with my zeal for shorter bangs.

On Sunday, the scene repeated itself: I was alone at home, was avoiding doing anything remotely productive (after all, it was the sabbath), and decided I needed a change in my life. I was too tired to rearrange the furniture, too fluffy to go out and buy a new outfit, and too pressed for time to campaign for world peace. That's when I spotted the scissors. Bingo. Five minutes and three inches later, I had the haircut of a six-year-old. And right in time for my 30th birthday. (Yes. It's Friday. And the only reason that I'm making it public is because I'll be expecting gifts. Cadbury Eggs most certainly count.) And no, I'm not going to publish a picture of the bangs. So don't even ask. I'm still too fragile. After all, Friday is a big day.

So, of course, one haircut leads to another which leads us to the salon on Calle 50. The one right next to the movie theater. It's the place I always got my hair cut in Argentina. Well, except for that one time when I went to the place around the corner and the woman refused to cut off more than two centimeters even though I begged and pleaded with her. (She should've been here on Sunday. We could have avoided the whole hair-maiming fiasco.) Anyway, this other place, the one where they actually cut off more than two centimeters - the one by the movie theater - is where this story takes place.

We were in the final countdown to a whirlwind trip around the globe. Several dozen of my closest Argentine friends and I were about to board a plane (or rather, several planes) and head to CM2007, a global gathering of tens of thousands of students in South Korea (with stops in Spain and Qatar to boot). So, like you do when you're about to board a plane for South Korea, I decided to get a last-minute hair cut. I sat down in the chair confidently. I said capas - layers - but not too many and not too short. And with that, I placed my unwavering faith in Mr. Male-hair-dresser-with-spikey-hair-and-sharp-scissors, sat back, and watched the show.

I should've known that things were going awry at the first snip. Inches off the top. Literally. I nervously laughed. He said, "Trust me." And because I'm a pushover, I did. And that is why, dear friends, thirty minutes later I was walking out of the salon, past the movie theater, with a haircut I have affectionately deemed the bowllet. The etymology is as follows:


Yeah, baby. Those culturally-relevant peace signs cannot overshadow all of that tousled goodness. Oh, and I should mention on the third day of the conference, I contracted pink eye. But not to worry, the friendly South Koreans cured me with an IV (as in intravenously-infused-pink-eye-fighting-medicine, because eye drops apparently are for lightweights). Unfortunately for me, though, my only pair of contacts were contaminated, and so the bowllet was accompanied by the glasses for the rest of the trip. Really, it was one of my better moments.

And suddenly I'm reminded that things could be worse. They could be better. But they could be worse.

posted by Courtney @ 11:17 PM