Day 181 - The Hair Atrocity

The Hair Cut

Why the long face?

Why the long face?

“Can you come with me to the hairdressers to tell them what I want?” I ask Zsuzsa.

“You don’t need me to come.  You can speak enough Hungarian to let them know.” she replies.

But then I remember the last time I went to a Hungarian hairdressers, when they cut my hair a little too short.

“I’m not sure.” I say.

“Honey, just ask for a little haircut.”

“What if they try and make me look Hungarian?  What if I come out with a moustache?”

“You’ll be fine.”

Thirty minutes later and I’m venturing in to the local hairdressers.  I’m alone and scared, but this shaggy hair isn’t going to cut itself.  I approach the scissor wielding staff and ask the dreaded question.

“Beszél Angolul (Do you speak English?)?”

“Errrr, nem.”

Son of a bin man!  I take a moment to compose myself.  I convince myself that all is okay.  I speak a little Hungarian.  I know how to ask for ‘A little hair cut’.  I’ve got this!  I take a deep breath, ask for, what I later realise is “A little hair” and take my place in the judgement seat.  The hairdresser today is a trendy gent.  He’s clad from head to toe in black, with skinny jeans, a tight fitting t-shirt and a black beanie hat.  He seems confident in what he has to do.  And so it begins.

The first ten minutes of the haircut are incident free.  He sprays a little water, trims a little hair and circles me repeatedly like a prowling tiger.

We enter the second half of the haircut and it’s now that proceedings will take an unexpected twist.  The hairdresser, who I think I’ll call Laszlo, whips out a big canister of hair mousse and a hairdryer.  He then begin to build my hair up, and up, and up, slathering on dollop after dollop of mousse and using the hairdryer as a weapon of mass volumisation.  All I can do is sit and watch in bewildered horror, unable to communicate with my hair aggressor.  It’s like watching a car crash happen in slow motion, but with more hair and a lot more hair mousse.

The hair cut finishes with a little hair spray.  I mean, of course it does!  I stare at my reflection.  WHAT THE HOLY FUCK DID I ASK FOR!?  I look insane!  I look like a hipster from the 80’s!  I look like a mixture of Jedward, Eraserhead and Joan Collins!  I look like a sodding cockatoo!  

“Okay?” asks Laszlo.

“Igen.  Köszönöm. (Yes.  Thanks)” I reply and give him a tip.  After all, I’m British.

I leave the hairdresser, stooping low to navigate my hair through the doorway, and stand in the crisp, Hungarian winter’s air, now a significantly taller man than I was thirty minutes ago.  I wait for Zsuzsa, comforted by the knowledge that she has my hat with her.  Ten minutes go by.  Zsuzsa approaches.  Her eyes widen.


“Hat please.” I reply.

This hat is staying on my head until February.