My new haircut and lack of tan

In the last three weeks it has rained once, overnight, and I am getting spoiled. Like all Romans, I am either outside or when not outside, I am yearning to be outside. My morning caffe is taken with friends at a table outside the bar. Pranzo is on the sidewalk at a café table at my local tavola calda. And dinner is either on my terrace, on my friends’ patio, or at the local pizza place at a table on the street. In between meals, I am walking the san pietrini, now wearing a hat, a complete give-away that I am not a native. But my vanity is of another kind. Romans are no different from other Italians when it comes to the sun. Preventing wrinkles and sun damage take a back seat to the fashionable summer tan. The verb is abronzarsi — to tan.  You will hear it constantly (as well as the adjective, abronzato) from late spring throughout the summer and it is always a compliment. My naturally creamy skin is an anomaly to my Roman friends who love to banter, “Denise, tu sei molto classica con pelle chiara e capelli scuri.” (Denise, you are so classic with your light skin and dark hair.) They are unable to understand why I wear sunscreen or take a hat with me wherever I go. To be abronzato is a fashion statement just like having the newest footwear or showing up in the color of the moment.

I am sitting outside at my corner bar at the one, always vacant, shady table.  I am eating lunch when I notice my neighbor across the street. He has come down from his apartment and he is standing, or rather leaning, against a parked car (not his). At first I think he is waiting for a friend or someone is coming to pick him up. But after 20 minutes he is still there, still leaning on the car, but now he has turned slightly, his face towards the sun. He is working on his tan. And he is not alone.  Down the street is the security guard at the corner bank. Armed and in a swat uniform, his job is to protect the bank and customers from robbers. But today I notice he has deviated just a bit from the front door, his back turned away from the entrance, and he too is facing the afternoon sun.

I haven’t purposely basked in the sun since I was a teenager. But as my daily activities take me outdoors, and the sun is becoming stronger, my complexion is taking on a rich tone. Although I see it, my friends continue to laugh when I say how I am getting tan. So I decided it was time for a change – a new hairstyle– something fun, and sexy, and a bit frivolous. So when I asked several friends where to go for the latest cut, they led me to a very smart, sophisticated and world-renowned hair salon in centro – the place where Rome’s A-list women go.

I had made the appointment over a week in advance. And I had done my homework.  The latest hairstyle is a sassy, wavy cut — a look that is on the pages of every magazine. It is carefree and just right for both hot days at the beach and cool nights on a passeggiata.  The day of the appointment I arrived with a few photos.  “Ah, but your hair was not cut in the right proportion before, so now I must fix it and undo what was done,” explained Massimo* my stylist.  “I am literally in your hands,” I responded. Then i took a deep breath.  I drank the espresso his assistant had brought and I ate the caramel candies that came with it.  I placed the empty the cup on the small silver tray and I shut my eyes.  Massimo did his magic.

First, he instructed his assistant to dry my hair (but it was already dry, no one had washed it yet). “Why are you drying it?” “To make it straight and long. Then he will cut it.” “Cut it dry?!” I asked in disbelief. “Yes, because when it’s dry he can see how it is naturally.” Did that make any sense? It didn’t to me, but I was letting go.  I exhaled.  Massimo was like a surgeon in the OR.  After about 30 minutes of cutting, he asked his assistant to wash my hair. And off he went.  After a very nice wash and a balsamic conditioner (is everything food related in this country?) I was brought back to the chair for the best blow dry I ever had. Clearly she had done this before.  In no time, I had soft gentle waves framing my face and I could finally see the results of Massimo’s scissors. He had done well. When she was finished drying it, Massimo came back. He made a few adjustments, added some product, and advised me on a course of action. “Next time make sure this grows to here, and only cut this part.”  He was concerned for my future.

In an hour’s time I walked out onto the street and into the jostling crowds that had been building all week. It is June and the weather in Rome is ideal (June is the high season for hotel rooms). I navigated the busy streets, just another woman walking down Via Condotti, only now I was a bit more confident, a bit more Roman. On my way back home, across the river, I stopped for my daily gelato.  I was away from the crowded center and in a residential area close to my home.  At the counter a man was standing next to me.  Perhaps I tilted my head ever-so-lightly or maybe I had flipped a strand of hair behind my ear – but at that moment my shiny, bouncy waves caught a stranger’s attention.  “Your hair is beautiful. You look like Monica Bellucci.”  I thanked him and went on my way.

Who needs a tan?

Insider Tip:  In hair salons it is customary to tip between 5-10 percent.

*Names have been changed