When in Slovenia...
When one lives in a rather provincial town in a somewhat provincial country, where prices are nonetheless incongruously inflated relative to the aforementioned provinciality, where does one go for a much-needed haircut?
Eastern Europe, of course.
More specifically, Slovenia. That’s right, I crossed international borders just for a haircut. In my defense, I made this trek solely because a friend was already going, and I figured I might as well keep her company and save a few euros at the same time. And hey, when else will I have the opportunity to get my hair cut in Slovenia?
2:15 My friend picks me up, twenty minutes late, as usual. She’s French and speaks almost no English, making German our lingua franca. In other words, she tells me long stories in German and I reply with broken sentences and half-finished ideas.
2:30 We stop at Burger King for lunch. I watch my friend polish off a double Whopper while I eat a kid’s meal. I take a moment to ponder the European perception that all Americans subsist on extra-large portions of fast food.
3:05 We finally hit the road. My friend explains that she thinks she remembers where to go. I begin to worry.
3:28 After my friend’s fourth rhetorical query concerning direction, followed by four seemingly arbitrary navigational decisions, I continue to worry. My friend calls her roommate for directions.
3:45 We reach a roundabout. One sign very clearly marks the way towards Slovenia. The other points to some sort of unidentified border. My friend follows the latter. I fight my natural tendency towards back-seat driving and keep my mouth shut.
3:53 After driving through rural Austria and half way up a mountain, we reach a border. Border control consists of a small hut and one very bored looking official. It occurs to me that while Slovenia is a small country, this is probably not the primary Slovene-Austrian border.
3:54 The bored official confirms that we have stumbled across a secondary border, intended for EU residents only. As I am not an EU resident, we turn around and head back towards the main road.
4:03 We return to the roundabout. As politely as I can, I point out the sign indicating the road to Slovenia.
4:08 We reach the Slovenian border. I have forgotten my passport. The Slovenian border guard is not inclined to take my Austrian residency permit in its place. I hand him my Georgia driver’s license. He looks like he’s trying not to laugh. My friend bats her eyelashes and pleads in German. The border guard goes to consult with his Austrian counterpart.
4:09 The guard returns and tells us we can go through, but we must return through the same checkpoint by seven o’clock. We enter Slovenia.
4:18 We arrive. I have to be back in Austria by 7. After a few quick calculations, figuring in my friend’s poor navigational skills and apparent belief that punctuality is for suckers, I resign myself to being late.
4:21 The salon. Considerably less hip than anywhere I’ve gotten my hair cut in the states. I observe a girl with an unfortunately androgynous bowl cut running amuck in the waiting area. I fervently hope she got her hair cut somewhere else.
4:23 My friend and I consult with the man who appears to be running the show. In German, of course. At least it’s not Slovene. He asks if I want color. I look at the color samples hanging on the back wall and note that only about half of them have ever occurred in nature. I decline.
4:25 My friend tries to explain what color she wants her hair to be and how she wants it cut. I watch and begin to worry again.
4:36 The man in charge collects me from the waiting area and sends me to get my hair shampooed. Without asking me anything about how I want my hair cut first. I continue to worry.
4:41 Hair washed and looking bedraggled, I sit down in front of the mirror. I have found a picture of a model with a shoulder-length bob and I explain in my best German that I want a similar shape, only with slightly shorter bangs. The stylist seems to understand. I worry a little less.
4:55 Half way through the hair cut, the stylist asks me to stand up. Once I figure out what it is he wants me to do, I comply. He spends several minutes circling me, snipping bits of hair here and there. I cannot fathom why I need to be standing for this, and I spend the time unsuccessfully trying not to start worrying again.
5:01 I am losing an alarming amount of hair. The stylist seems unconcerned with the fact that I really had very little hair to begin with. I remember my unfortunate decade-long experiment with bangs, during which the cowlicks on either side of my forehead produced an astounding antigravity-effect. I am concerned.
5:06 The stylist collects approximately a dozen round hair brushes, none of which have been sterilized in the past several weeks. I wonder why he needs so many.
5:08 He needs so many because as he blow dries my hair, he periodically wraps some around a hair brush and affixes the brush to my head. At one point I find myself with two hair brushes stuck to my head and one at work.
5:15 Done. It’s not the best haircut I’ve ever had, but nor do I look like I grew up behind the Iron Curtain. I call it a victory and sit down to watch the progress on my friend’s hair.
5:23 My friend tries to explain her desired cut to a young woman whose German is about as good as mine. Now that I no longer have to worry about my own hair, I focus on worrying about my friend’s.
5:35 I alternate between watching my friend’s haircut anxiously and watching the clock anxiously. I calculate how long it will take us to get back to Austria. I add fifteen minutes for my friend to get lost. Then I add another fifteen minutes for her to be late. It does not look good.
5:44 The stylist begins to blow dry my friend’s hair. I watch in fascination as she employs more and more round hairbrushes in the process. I start counting the number of hair brushes stuck to my friend’s head.
5:47 The hair brush count tops out at eight attached to my friend’s head and one at work. I wonder how I ever managed to blow dry my hair with only one hair brush.
5:55 Finished. We pay up and leave. My friend wails that she looks like a poodle. “Zu viel Volum.” Privately, I think she looks about how she did when she went in, only a bit blonder.
6:15 Slovene-Austrian border. The Austrian guard looks askance at my lack of passport. We explain that we just popped over the border for a hair cut. The guard asks a bit huffily why we couldn’t get our hair cut in Austria. We seem to have offended his sense of national pride. We giggle and he lets us through.
6:16 My friend narrates all the times she has crossed international borders under dubious circumstances. I am especially concerned with her account of driving into Germany with a car full of drunk girls, not entirely sober herself. She explains that she told the border guard a pack of lies and he let her in no problem. I start to worry again.
6:38 Just when I think I may make it back to town on time, my friend informs me that she wants to stop and say hello to her roommate’s mother in a town about 40 kilometers outside the city. I re-resign myself to being late.
7:12 My friend drops me off at my destination, less late than anticipated, and speeds off, probably to talk another public official into bending the rules for her. At least she’ll have plenty of volume to aid in the hair-tossing and eyelash-batting.
And where did I need to be at 7 o’clock on a Tuesday night? The local Irish bar, for a bi-weekly poker tournament with a bunch of Austrians…
Eastern Europe, of course.
More specifically, Slovenia. That’s right, I crossed international borders just for a haircut. In my defense, I made this trek solely because a friend was already going, and I figured I might as well keep her company and save a few euros at the same time. And hey, when else will I have the opportunity to get my hair cut in Slovenia?
2:15 My friend picks me up, twenty minutes late, as usual. She’s French and speaks almost no English, making German our lingua franca. In other words, she tells me long stories in German and I reply with broken sentences and half-finished ideas.
2:30 We stop at Burger King for lunch. I watch my friend polish off a double Whopper while I eat a kid’s meal. I take a moment to ponder the European perception that all Americans subsist on extra-large portions of fast food.
3:05 We finally hit the road. My friend explains that she thinks she remembers where to go. I begin to worry.
3:28 After my friend’s fourth rhetorical query concerning direction, followed by four seemingly arbitrary navigational decisions, I continue to worry. My friend calls her roommate for directions.
3:45 We reach a roundabout. One sign very clearly marks the way towards Slovenia. The other points to some sort of unidentified border. My friend follows the latter. I fight my natural tendency towards back-seat driving and keep my mouth shut.
3:53 After driving through rural Austria and half way up a mountain, we reach a border. Border control consists of a small hut and one very bored looking official. It occurs to me that while Slovenia is a small country, this is probably not the primary Slovene-Austrian border.
3:54 The bored official confirms that we have stumbled across a secondary border, intended for EU residents only. As I am not an EU resident, we turn around and head back towards the main road.
4:03 We return to the roundabout. As politely as I can, I point out the sign indicating the road to Slovenia.
4:08 We reach the Slovenian border. I have forgotten my passport. The Slovenian border guard is not inclined to take my Austrian residency permit in its place. I hand him my Georgia driver’s license. He looks like he’s trying not to laugh. My friend bats her eyelashes and pleads in German. The border guard goes to consult with his Austrian counterpart.
4:09 The guard returns and tells us we can go through, but we must return through the same checkpoint by seven o’clock. We enter Slovenia.
4:18 We arrive. I have to be back in Austria by 7. After a few quick calculations, figuring in my friend’s poor navigational skills and apparent belief that punctuality is for suckers, I resign myself to being late.
4:21 The salon. Considerably less hip than anywhere I’ve gotten my hair cut in the states. I observe a girl with an unfortunately androgynous bowl cut running amuck in the waiting area. I fervently hope she got her hair cut somewhere else.
4:23 My friend and I consult with the man who appears to be running the show. In German, of course. At least it’s not Slovene. He asks if I want color. I look at the color samples hanging on the back wall and note that only about half of them have ever occurred in nature. I decline.
4:25 My friend tries to explain what color she wants her hair to be and how she wants it cut. I watch and begin to worry again.
4:36 The man in charge collects me from the waiting area and sends me to get my hair shampooed. Without asking me anything about how I want my hair cut first. I continue to worry.
4:41 Hair washed and looking bedraggled, I sit down in front of the mirror. I have found a picture of a model with a shoulder-length bob and I explain in my best German that I want a similar shape, only with slightly shorter bangs. The stylist seems to understand. I worry a little less.
4:55 Half way through the hair cut, the stylist asks me to stand up. Once I figure out what it is he wants me to do, I comply. He spends several minutes circling me, snipping bits of hair here and there. I cannot fathom why I need to be standing for this, and I spend the time unsuccessfully trying not to start worrying again.
5:01 I am losing an alarming amount of hair. The stylist seems unconcerned with the fact that I really had very little hair to begin with. I remember my unfortunate decade-long experiment with bangs, during which the cowlicks on either side of my forehead produced an astounding antigravity-effect. I am concerned.
5:06 The stylist collects approximately a dozen round hair brushes, none of which have been sterilized in the past several weeks. I wonder why he needs so many.
5:08 He needs so many because as he blow dries my hair, he periodically wraps some around a hair brush and affixes the brush to my head. At one point I find myself with two hair brushes stuck to my head and one at work.
5:15 Done. It’s not the best haircut I’ve ever had, but nor do I look like I grew up behind the Iron Curtain. I call it a victory and sit down to watch the progress on my friend’s hair.
5:23 My friend tries to explain her desired cut to a young woman whose German is about as good as mine. Now that I no longer have to worry about my own hair, I focus on worrying about my friend’s.
5:35 I alternate between watching my friend’s haircut anxiously and watching the clock anxiously. I calculate how long it will take us to get back to Austria. I add fifteen minutes for my friend to get lost. Then I add another fifteen minutes for her to be late. It does not look good.
5:44 The stylist begins to blow dry my friend’s hair. I watch in fascination as she employs more and more round hairbrushes in the process. I start counting the number of hair brushes stuck to my friend’s head.
5:47 The hair brush count tops out at eight attached to my friend’s head and one at work. I wonder how I ever managed to blow dry my hair with only one hair brush.
5:55 Finished. We pay up and leave. My friend wails that she looks like a poodle. “Zu viel Volum.” Privately, I think she looks about how she did when she went in, only a bit blonder.
6:15 Slovene-Austrian border. The Austrian guard looks askance at my lack of passport. We explain that we just popped over the border for a hair cut. The guard asks a bit huffily why we couldn’t get our hair cut in Austria. We seem to have offended his sense of national pride. We giggle and he lets us through.
6:16 My friend narrates all the times she has crossed international borders under dubious circumstances. I am especially concerned with her account of driving into Germany with a car full of drunk girls, not entirely sober herself. She explains that she told the border guard a pack of lies and he let her in no problem. I start to worry again.
6:38 Just when I think I may make it back to town on time, my friend informs me that she wants to stop and say hello to her roommate’s mother in a town about 40 kilometers outside the city. I re-resign myself to being late.
7:12 My friend drops me off at my destination, less late than anticipated, and speeds off, probably to talk another public official into bending the rules for her. At least she’ll have plenty of volume to aid in the hair-tossing and eyelash-batting.
And where did I need to be at 7 o’clock on a Tuesday night? The local Irish bar, for a bi-weekly poker tournament with a bunch of Austrians…
posted by Sydney at
15:10
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