Today I looked at more apartments. They’re beginning to all look the same, so I guess I need to make a decision soon. The apartments are falling into two groups: small, older and in a walkable area, or huge and more secluded and out there.
I also found out that only half of my stuff is here. They’re searching for the other two crates – uh oh!
For a pick-me-up and to kill some time, I got my hair cut. Nothing like visiting a beauty salon to feel better. Kuaförs are on every block, so I just walked into one – I haven’t found the Turkish yelp yet!
While I was waiting, a woman came over and started offering every service under the sun. Since I had time to kill, I asked for brows. After I thought she was done and they looked okay, she took out a huge spool of thread and went to work on my whole face! It didn’t hurt too much until she got to my lip area – ow! By the time she finished my eyes were bleeding tears. When she asked about the rest of my body, I think my look of horror convinced her that I was done. I’ve learned that Turkish ladies prefer to go hairless, and regularly wax most of their bodies to maintain this condition. So she offered a pedicure during my haircut and I went for it mostly just to see how that worked.
So next to the haircutting guy. I’ve always been nervous about getting my hair cut, and doing it in another language is even scarier. Although I guess there’s no better motivation to learn a language than to keep your looks!
Since I don’t know how to say I want to keep it in long layers but remove the split ends, I told him that my hair was without health and I wanted to cut the sickness out of it. But stay long “I want that my hair remains long” is how I put it in Turkish. I don’t know where my expectations were – I’ve never had much luck communicating with stylists, no matter where in the world I am. I remember a French lady in Bahrain who basically just went to town on my head and every once in a while just said “like zis?” She was pretty awesome. Since then, I always just hope that I miraculously sit in the chair of some hair genius, and have some sort of total makeover experience where I am transformed into a hair babe. I usually start mourning my recently departed hair and pay no attention to what’s happening to the stuff on my head. I don’t want to interrupt a genius at work! Of course, what you get usually depends on how much you put into something, and hope is fairly ineffective as a strategy.
So now I have mushroom hair. I didn’t realize how many chunky layers he was cutting until they were all there, like a ring around my head. It’s cool – hair grows out, the pain in my face will eventually go away, and I can always distract myself by looking at my now pretty feet!
My hour at the beauty salon was an exercise in desperation language skills. It was also a review of some vocabulary I had brain-dumped a while ago: words for body parts and shapes/colors/forms.
I’ve started getting what a friend calls the “full court press” from almost every random Turk that I meet. They start out by asking about your family, then asking in as many ways as I can understand the words for if I am single. Then talking about how lucky a man would be to be my boyfriend. Since its almost a formula now, I’m already immune to it. So far the randoms that I meet are taxi drivers or shop workers, so maybe things will improve if I make friends with more education or wit.