I've been letting my hair grow out. It wasn't a conscious decision on my part, but it stemmed from my own general laziness.
I mean, if I wanted to keep it looking civilized I'd have to find a salon, get to this salon, pay someone to cut my hair, and maybe even buy some product to keep it looking 'just right' all day (by just 'right' I mean as if I had just woken up).
But when it got to the point where I was going to a speech by the President of the United States looking like Tom Hanks in "Cast Away" (2000), I had to draw the line. After all, it's a little known fact that "hairstyle-profiling" is a new method currently being used in the trial stages by the Secret Service. I didn't want to be removed from the hall under this pilot program, so I figured it was time to let the salon search begin.
I couldn't just go to your average barber-shop-down-the-street or something. You know the type of place I'm talking about: everyone cutting hair there personally fought in the Revolutionary War, and wears coke bottles on their eyes, and there are porn magazines on the counter next to the cash register. Sounds like a real hoot to me, especially after one of my friends returned from a place like this with a non-descript normal haircut for a darn good price. (In retrospect I could have braved the old magazines and wood-paneled walls for cheapness' sake ... alas for the clarity of hindsight.)
No no, I was looking for something a little more modern, hip, fresh and young (a place that didn't have a sign that said "walk-ins welcome"). So when I was farting around the 'Internets' and I came upon this description of a salon, I just had to call up and make myself an appointment. I mean, "----- is a fun-loving, fashion-forward salon located in the heart of Dupont Circle and the fashionable epicenter of Washington, DC": It doesn't get any better than that. A place that has "fashion-forward" and "fashionable" in the first sentence of their description had to be good.
Stylist Tina? Sign me up for Thursday.
It wasn't even that far: four Metro stops away and a pleasant stroll from Dupont Circle. The closest thing I can think of to compare Dupont Circle to is Harvard Square, but even then there are some major differences.
For one, Dupont Circle is actually a circular rotary thing, whereas Harvard Square is anything but four right angles. Dupont features a bunch of clubs and bars and quaint little coffee shops, brick "Romanesque revival style" townhouses, and even the Iraqi Embassy (just to add a little favor).
As I exited the Metro on what seems to be the world's longest escalator (OK, the longest one in the western hemisphere is actually at the Washington, D.C. Wheaton Station), I entered the circle and started walking down P Street, in the direction of the salon. As I crossed the little park in the center of Dupont, I was almost brutally murdered/body checked by two little seven-year-olds on wheels.
What is the deal with those shoes? You know the ones; I think they are called Heelys. They infiltrated American malls and shopping centers and schools at least five years ago, and ever since they have been terrorizing parents, the elderly and me.
They should be renamed "lame" and "dangerous" and put on a "Do Not Fly" list or something. Did these children never get the memo that these shoes suck? At least they don't cost $300.
"You must be Jamie. Great, you're here for your 4:30 haircut. Why don't you head on back and Gracia will wash your hair." I love that about salons; you walk in and everyone is so friendly and cheery and they offer you tea and strumpets. Uhhh I mean crumpets. You even get a nice head massage, not to mention someone's extraordinarily large cleavage hanging in your face for a good five minutes.
Gracia was amazing; she had strong hands, the water was the perfect temperature, and the shampoo smelled like expensive almonds. "?De d??nde eres? (where are you from?)" she asked me in Spanish.
I was a little confused. How did she know I was a Spanish major? I proceeded to explain to her that I'm from Boston (it wasn't worth trying to explain that I'm really from "30-min outside Boston," like everyone else at Tufts). I couldn't let it pass, and I had to inquire as to how she knew I spoke Spanish.
"Oh, you have Latin features," she responded, still in Espa?±ol. Are you serious? "Yeah, I'm serious," she actually said to me. I mean, both my parents are Italian, so if she meant Latin as in Virgil and Caesar and Marc Antony, then OK that could work, same general area as where my family is actually from. But with my light brown/blond-ish hair and hazel eyes, I usually have to pay people to believe I'm Italian in the first place. What are Latin features and how on earth did Gracia think I had them?
I tried not to react in a strange manner, but I couldn't believe no one else was around to hear this conversation. Who knows, maybe when I'm horizontal, without my Dolce & Gabbana glasses on, and my hair under running water, I have Latin features. Picture that one for a second; yeah, hottt.
The haircut with Tina went well and I settled on a new-ish look for me, the faux-hawk thing. Some have said I look like a rock star. Others just laugh at me and walk away.
It isn't a look for the meek, and it definitely doesn't work for everyone. I like to think it works for me. I don't know how Emperor Augustus would react to it, but at least Gracia likes it. She has good taste.
Jamie Bologna is a junior majoring in political science. You can e-mail him at James.Bologna@tufts.edu.
