Italian Haircut

Originally published in The Anxious Traveler on May 1, 2008.

In the movie, Roman Holiday, Audrey Hepburn famously got her hair cut in Rome. When I went to Rome, I wanted to get my hair cut--not because Audrey did it, but because in Rome, one is surrounded by stylists who know what they're doing.

Let me start by saying that I am not impulsive about my hair. A decision to cut more than a couple of inches off is a major deal, requiring hours of agonizing and asking at least fifty friends and family members what they think. I have, in my life, willingly packed my bags and moved to an unknown town to teach in England, but asking me to be impulsive about a hairstyle is just not cool.

At the Trevi Fountain in 2003

My hair was all one length, falling to about halfway down my back. I have naturally straight, baby-fine hair, so this style wasn't particularly flattering. Most of the time, I had it pulled out of my face, as in the Trevi Fountain picture at right. I wanted to cut it to my shoulders, and have some sassy layers added to give it more body.

I found a salon in the famous Piazza Barberini, and, in half English, half Italian, made an appointment. When the time arrived, I walked in, full of a smug confidence. Hello, beautiful girl, you're getting your hair done...in Roma!

The lady at the reception desk introduced me to my stylist, a tall man with distinctive Roman features and a booming voice...and maybe seven words of English.

"Buongiorno!" he boomed, leading me back to the sink to wash my hair.

"Buongiorno..." I meekly replied. Suddenly I wasn't so smug. This man spoke very little English, and visions of clippers and purple hair dye started dancing in front of my eyes. How could I possibly communicate what I wanted to this man?

I sat in his chair, my hair dripping and ready for him to work his magic. He prattled on in Italian while I nodded and smiled, wondering what kind of torture I was agreeing to. Finally, I brushed my hands along my shoulders and smiled, saying, "Shoulder length?"

"Si! Si!"

"With layers?" (Gesturing wildly with my hands.)

"Si! Si! Bella! Bella!"

Before I knew it, this man took my life--okay, just my hair--in his hands and brandished his shears. Let the snipping begin! I watched, feeling slightly green, as inches of hair fell to the floor, but he seemed to know what he was doing. I kept a sharp eye out for clippers and purple hair dye, but they never materialized. In the meantime, this Italian stylist was performing miracles on my boring hair.

Suddenly, the snipping stopped. Out came a blow dryer, and the stylist began merrily tossing my hair around. All the while, rapid-fire Italian streamed from his mouth. I just continued nodding and smiling.

My Roman Haircut was one of the scariest beauty experiences of my life, but I'll tell you what: I walked out of that salon with a fabulous cut. On the way back to the hotel, I noticed, for the first time, something that had eluded me in Rome...an appreciative glance from a Roman man.

Buongiorno, indeed.

On the top of the dome of St. Peter's Basillica in Vatican city, 2003.