Lookin’ pretty in a foreign country

Because I’m girlie and fairly princessy, and maybe just a teensy bit vain, I worried a bit before I got here about whether I’d be able to access certain quality beauty services. Specifically: a good hairstylist, an aesthetician and a fungus-free place to get pedicures.

Thankfully, I’ve found an aesthetician whom I adore. (Whew! So totally key when you’re living in a country with fabulous beaches, and you desire to visit places like Brazil.) I found a place to get pedicures, where the staff serves hot tea while they scrub your feet. And today, I think — and I hope I’m not jinxing myself — I finally found a place to get my haircut.

It’s kind of hilarious, actually. The shop is called “Robin by Enrique Bricker” and it’s one of those super trendy places where the staff is young, pierced, tattooed, wearing MC Hammer pants with a Hello Kitty tank top, etc. They don’t take appointments. Instead you show up whenever and wait in line. On weekends, the line stretches outside the store. But during the week, if you don’t have a job and you’re really supposed to be writing freelance stories but are instead procrastinating, you can show up and there’s usually no one there.

So I went today. It was technically my second visit. On my first visit, the stylist gave me horrible spiky bangs, but I’d only paid 200 pesos and I was happy with the rest of the haircut. It was worth another roll of the dice.

This time, I gave my name to the Hammer-Panted Hello Kitty receptionist and she referred me to a woman named Aline. Aline was stick-thin, wore ankle boots, leggings and a baby-doll top. She also had very straight, thick bangs. We chit-chatted a bit about the style I wanted and she asked me where I was from. I told her I’d moved here with my husband. She said, “You’re married? You look so young.” The phrase she used was “bien chava.”

From that point on, I loved Aline.

She listened to my thoughts about my bangs, and snipped quickly, taking off entire sheaths of my hair with just a few flicks of the scissors. She didn’t exactly cut the length — more like she sucked out the volume. I loved this. (The spiky-bangs lady did it too, by the way.) My whole life, hairstylists have wailed at me, “You have so much hair!” But in Mexico, they just snip y ya. They know how to tame thick hair. Best of all, I now have hair that I can wrap four times — not two! — with a ponytail holder.

Anyway, Aline finished cutting and got out the flat iron. She pressed, and steamed. Fifteen minutes later I had a sleek cap of layered hair that I didn’t recognize. I looked…. Mexican. Like your average bien-chava girl walking down the street.

“I feel like I should be going to a club,” I told her.

She laughed. “Go! Take advantage of it!”

So here I am at home with my soft, thin hair. Not going to a club tonight, but I may go grab a drink at the Mexpat. If you don’t recognize me, I’ll understand.