How do you say ‘Not too short’ in another language? At the hairdresser in a foreign country

For women who travel a lot or live overseas, one of the biggest challenges is finding a good hairdresser. They need to speak your language so English is essential. That’s the only way to guarantee you’ll get a perfect cut, or is it?

After several years travelling in different countries I was based in Portugal and could ignore my hair no longer. It had finally grown out after three disastrous haircuts. The first was in Australia, the land of my birth and place of my mother tongue. The second was in Turkey where I lived for ten years. I went to the same hairdresser I’d been seeing, as though it were an affair, for five years. We always spoke in Turkish and until that last cut, I had nothing but perfection from him. I suffered the third cut in the tourist centre of Bangkok, at a salon where everything was written in near perfect English. On each occasion I walked out with a style nothing what like I asked for and far too short. With the weight of my hair removed its natural body pulls it up above my ears and unless I smile, I look like an extremely threatening prison guard. I was worried about a repeat in Lisbon but my hair was down around my shoulders and made me look like I was sporting a discarded bird’s nest on my head.

I prepared myself just as I did in Turkey until my command of the language improved, by listing all the necessary vocabulary in my best hand-writing. That way I knew I’d be able to explain what I wanted even if no one could understand my pronunciation. I wanted the whole package, a lavar (wash), corte (cut) and brushing (blow dry) as well as have my sobrancelha (eyebrows) tidied and my lãbio superior, that’s upper lip to you, done.

I headed for Anjos, not far from the city centre, where I’d noticed a salon advertising threading. I always had my eyebrows threaded in Turkey and I really liked the result, if not the pain. I found the place easily enough but they were busy until late afternoon. I continued down the long street, stopping in every salon I saw, but I got all the way back into downtown Lisbon without finding one not booked up until late in the day. Wistfully rubbing my upper lip I decided to head home and leave it for another time.

Alighting at my usual bus stop in Graça, I saw a small salon I’d never noticed before. Inside a dimly lit room last decorated in the early 1980s Dallas/Dynasty style, two hairdressers were working on clients watched by two women waiting their turn. Luckily for me the beautician, a tiny older woman wearing a wrap-around apron like a 1950s housewife, was free. She only came up to my shoulder so had no trouble passing through the low medieval doorway into another below ground level cavern, but I had to duck. As with many places in Lisbon there was no central heating and it was too cold to take off my coat

Despite the shabbiness of the place she did a good job, so I decided to ask the hairdresser the cost of a wash, cut and blow dry. She tapped out the figures on a calculator after carefully consulting a list I couldn’t quite read. The figure on the calculator was staggeringly high and I did a double take. I asked the price again, carefully enunciating my words, but the decimal point didn’t move*.

Shocked by the quote but nonetheless buoyed by my success in being able to communicate, I decided to walk the length of the main street one last time in search of another hairdresser. My luck was in and I opened the door into a warm sunny space, stylishly decorated in silver and purple. My assigned hairdresser Christina consulted with another woman who spoke some English and I was quickly seated and we began to ‘discuss’ what I wanted.

My line drawing of a bob cut went over well, but explaining my views on thinning scissors was a bit harder. Spying a pair on the counter I pointed to them and firmly say não (no), while miming how they make my hair look like an electrocuted daffodil. Christina got it straight away, and dramatically tossed a towel over the offending item. She led me to a basin where I was pleased to find I was comfortable for once. I could easily lean back with my legs stretched out in front of me. Back home the ceramic lip of the basin always cuts into my neck and my feet dangle in the air. Being only 5 foot 2 inches I’m considered quite short in Australia but in Portugal I was just right.

I think a sign of a good hairdresser isn’t the skill with which they massage in the shampoo, but how relaxed they make you feel. Within seconds I was nearly asleep, my eyes open but brain in neutral. By the time Christina shepherded me back to the chair I was happy to let her get on with it while I watched what was happening around me. Behind me a woman sat at a manicure table, laughing and swapping news and secrets with the manicurist, like old friends. A little later on two more women entered the salon, one young and one old. Both were treated with great respect, greeted by name and as with me, helped off with their jackets and then shown to different corners of the room. There was more than enough to keep me entertained until the cape was whipped away and I gazed at my rejuvenated self in the mirror. I felt like a million dollars. My hair looked brilliant and when I told my Portuguese friend Fatima how little I paid, she was amazed.

After lots of bad hair days I know that being able to speak English doesn’t guarantee a hairdresser will give you a good cut. I’ve had some of my best haircuts done in countries where I don’t know the language well, if at all. Good communication skills are what matter, both yours and theirs.

*About a week later I realised she’d probably omitted the decimal point. At least I hope so!