“The Hairdresser — a Time Machine”
When I moved to Budapest, there came a day when it was time to shape my hair. Despite my hair type being forgiving of any hairstylist’s mistakes, I still began to selectively observe the salons in our area with some discernment. Choosing a salon based on familiar criteria was challenging because even the good ones here are strikingly similar in style, furniture, equipment, and even smell — a blend of damp rags and acidic agents — reminiscent of hairdressers from a past life in the USSR.
I remember, as a child, my mother would take me to such a hairdresser — a lady with a starched purple high hairstyle, and say, ‘Please give her a haircut.’ She would authoritatively move my head up and down for her convenience, getting irritated if I lowered it. I always knew in advance that it wouldn’t end well, but it never occurred to me to intervene to prevent the damage. Children are braver these days.
So, after visiting several hairdressers here, I found out that the earliest appointment was in two weeks. ‘It isn’t meant to be,’ I thought, leaving with a sense of relief.
Finally, tired of myself and unable to make a decision, I went to the nearest and most ‘Soviet’ salon close to my home. There, worked veterans of the hairdressing trade, and I randomly approached one who looked younger — about 65 years old. She had time for me in her busy schedule — in three days — what luck! Cash only — fine. I confirmed the amount and left, satisfied that I had finally made a decisive choice. Along the way, I convinced myself that these women were of the old-school type and that I was in safe hands.
On the appointed day, I arrived prepared, withdrew the necessary amount of money and a bit extra for a tip, and also prepared a photo of the hairstyle I wanted. We coordinated the details through gestures.
I was directed to get my hair washed by another woman, who could have been my grandmother. It was unusual, but I trusted her. Wrapping my hair in a towel, she led me back to the stylist.
The stylist, it turned out, didn’t know how to comb long hair, pulling it nervously. I offered to help and combed it myself. But she cut it neatly, seemingly scientifically.
At the end, I paid, thanked her, and headed for the exit. Then the ‘a grandmother who washed my hair’ grabbed my arm as if catching me red-handed, and said something with a worried expression on her face. I didn’t understand a word, but I knew I had done something terribly wrong. Fortunately, one of the customers spoke English and translated for me that I needed to pay separately for the hair wash. ‘What a diversification of labor!’ I thought. Then I told my savior translator that I needed to withdraw a little more money from the nearest bank. I tried to convey to the grandmother through facial expressions my regret over such an inexcusable oversight (I read it from her face). The old lady looked a bit offended but reluctantly agreed.
I didn’t want to upset the old lady, so I returned as quickly as I could, handed over the fee with a tip, and assurances of ‘SORRY’, but it seemed she ‘still felt slighted.’ Forgive me. You were an indispensable link in this process.
Every time I walk past that salon, I think that surely the rent is expensive here, and something more modern and convenient could be launched, but such are the local residents.
Budapest, March 2022
