Well, I finally did it. I bit the bullet. After almost 2 years here in Moscow, there was no more denying it. It was time to give in. Not being able to predict the next time I’d be back in Canada to have things taken care of, I could no longer wait. I had no choice but to trust that everything would be alright in the end; that taking this enormous leap of faith would not turn out to be the single worst decision of my life. What could go wrong, I thought to myself. It isn’t like the results would be life-threatening or permanent (well, not that there wouldn’t be a way to compensate should things not go according to plan, at least). I do have options, however unsavoury they may be, should things go terribly awry.
I had spent the better part of 3 hours surfing the web, comparing prices, services, locations, reviews on Expat discussion boards and everything in between. I had finally decided on a location where I’d tempt the gods of fate. Prices seemed competitive and the location was within walking distance from home, along one of my regular commuting routes. Muscovite women do this every day and they don’t seem any worse for the wear and in fact, they are excellent advocates (read: walking billboards) for what I was setting out to do. A quick internet search netted me a few key terms that would help me to be clearly understood should the language barrier prove to challenging (this is what I hoped, anyway) and I typed them into the handy note section of my iPhone. Not having a 3G plan and having to rely on various free wifi connections throughout town, I did not want to risk not being prepared. The following two phrases would have to be enough to compliment my rudimentary Russian skills: окрашивание волос & темно-коричневого почти черного. Shamefully, I do not yet speak the language fluently. Mea Culpa. Becoming fluent in Russian, well, more fluent than I am currently is part of my personal improvement plan for the coming year. Applying austerity measures and personal growth are the two goals I have for our remaining time here in the Motherland.
But I digress.
Screwing my courage to the sticking point, I put on my shoes, grabbed my wallet, keys and phone (can’t forget the phone!) and left the house fully intending to “get ‘er done” before I changed my mind. I knew that since I did not have an appointment, I might have to wait or even be turned away but I was hoping that since it was Sunday afternoon, there would be a minimal wait, if at all.
Alas, my plan was foiled by lack of availability although il n’y avait pas un chat in the entire place. I couldn’t for the life of me think of why I would have to wait 2 hours before someone could see me. I opted for a confirmed appointment the following day rather than loiter for two hours before Олга could even see me, let alone do what she had to do. That would have me home around 6PM at the earliest and that was not happening. besides, what would I do for 2 hours? I suppose that Starbucks was an option but the draw of wearing a pair yoga pants and lounging in my own livingroom was far too tempting a prospect. Although, in hindsight, a chai latté would have been heavenly.
Let the record show that with her limited English (I still think she had more than she let on) and my halting Russian, Ирина and I worked out a time and date that we both understood. Thankfully she wrote the details on a business card so I’d know exactly what she meant. Truthfully, it only confirmed that I understood that I should return the following day at 1PM ready to meet with Олга. Mr. U being out of town, galavanting across Western Europe without me this time, I had no choice but to sort myself out. Who am I kidding? Even when he is here, he encourages me to work it all out by myself in preparation for cases such as these, when I get great ideas and he is not around to do it for me. One of these days his method (madness?) will backfire all over me but today was not that day (thankfully).
So here I was on Monday, primed and ready to head out to face my moment of destiny head-on. Knowing that I would have a window of about six hours before Mr. U was due to come home during which I might potentially fix a disastrous outcome but desperately hoping it would not be necessary, I strode along the Moscow river, crossed over to the other side with the Ministry of Foreign Affairs building looming large in front of me, took a deep breath and crossed the threshold of Digi & Digi to meet Олга and have her ... cover the grey hairs that are slowly (and noticeably!!) creeping in.
I’m pretty sure that at this point you’re asking yourself, “why all the build up for a hair appointment?” You think about spending the equivalent of 200$ for a dye job and blow dry and tell me how quickly you’re willing to part with two C-notes. Yikes. Did I forget to mention the insane prices that are charged by hair salons? This one isn’t nearly the worst of them, either! The Aveda salon in the mall a stone’s throw away from my apartment charges 200$ for the colour alone, then there is the cost of the blowdry and then any other kind of treatment they see fit to throw in - you need a conditioning treatment, there was a head massage, we offered you water and don’t get me started on a tip as well! Before you turn around, that little appointment would cost a cool three C-notes, minimum. Again, not the most expensive venue in the city.
Now can you understand why I was defaulting to my long-time friend and stylist back in Ottawa whenever I was back there these past couple of years.
It turns out that Олга is a teeny, tiny slip of a woman with a whole lot of power and endurance in her skinny, little arms. Once she found the colour swatches in her sample books and we decided on a formula for my hair, off she scooted to mix the paste that would eradicate the usurping grey hairs.
When having my colour done, I am used to a towel protecting the nape of my neck secured in place by a black, polyester cape (usually with some company logo emblazoned on the front) and a generous amount of some sort of silicone-based cream spread along my hairline to help avoid dark staining on my skin. Олга applied the cream which gave me confidence but when she plucked two tissues from the box of kleenex on the counter in front of me and tucked them into the back of my shirt, it was all I could do to not burst out laughing out of sheer nervousness. Compound that with the transparent sheet of something that can only be described as a drop cloth draped over my front and tied with tiny straps around my neck and my confidence level began to sink exponentially. All dressed up with kleenex and wrapped in a plastic bag on steroids, Олга set to work applying colour to the roots of my hair. Her method was very thorough and my confidence level once again was on the rise. When she was finished and leaving me to cook, she left the area leaving me alone with my reflection. I looked like an untidy lion. There are no photographs, do not even think about it.
I passed the required incubation time by reading War and Peace on the iPad (I’m about 1/3 of the way through) and listening to the musical offerings of the salon. I’m not sure if they were playing English music because of me or if they were playing it because it was enjoyable (I use that term loosely) but again, I had to stifle a fit of the giggles. Watch the short video and tell me what you would have done in my place!
The tunes did get better after a couple of songs but I was afraid that it was an entire album of MJ’s greatest hits recorded by a Russian woman in pain. When the instrumental arrangement of The Look of Love came on, followed by As Time Goes By, I was able to find my happy place.
Олга spent the next 15 minutes pulling the colour through my nightmare of a head of curly hair (which is now past my shoulders, BTW) and she worked so hard that she broke a sweat. At that point I decided her tip would be a bit higher than I had initially planned. She certainly earned it. Although I reconsidered my position when she slicked my hair down and made me look like PeeWee Herman. *sigh*
And now the hard part, I thought to myself. As I looked at my reflection I noticed how dark the dye was around the edges of my hairline. I was convinced that I was going to walk out of the salon with a grey ring almost an inch wide around my face. I would have to resort to the My Big Fat Greek Wedding cure-all of Windex to wipe away the stain or not show my face in public until it faded sufficiently. I don’t have bangs.
Олга, the little miracle-worker, managed to wipe my forehead clean, blow dry my hair straight and even add a little playful flip on each side. For exactly 4.7 minutes I looked like a well-coiffed woman who belonged in Moscow. Credit card swiped, receipt signed, handshake with a 500 руб note pressed into Олга’s palm later and I was out the door, feeling great about my first (and definitely not my last) hair experience.
I had spent the better part of 3 hours surfing the web, comparing prices, services, locations, reviews on Expat discussion boards and everything in between. I had finally decided on a location where I’d tempt the gods of fate. Prices seemed competitive and the location was within walking distance from home, along one of my regular commuting routes. Muscovite women do this every day and they don’t seem any worse for the wear and in fact, they are excellent advocates (read: walking billboards) for what I was setting out to do. A quick internet search netted me a few key terms that would help me to be clearly understood should the language barrier prove to challenging (this is what I hoped, anyway) and I typed them into the handy note section of my iPhone. Not having a 3G plan and having to rely on various free wifi connections throughout town, I did not want to risk not being prepared. The following two phrases would have to be enough to compliment my rudimentary Russian skills: окрашивание волос & темно-коричневого почти черного. Shamefully, I do not yet speak the language fluently. Mea Culpa. Becoming fluent in Russian, well, more fluent than I am currently is part of my personal improvement plan for the coming year. Applying austerity measures and personal growth are the two goals I have for our remaining time here in the Motherland.
But I digress.
Screwing my courage to the sticking point, I put on my shoes, grabbed my wallet, keys and phone (can’t forget the phone!) and left the house fully intending to “get ‘er done” before I changed my mind. I knew that since I did not have an appointment, I might have to wait or even be turned away but I was hoping that since it was Sunday afternoon, there would be a minimal wait, if at all.
Alas, my plan was foiled by lack of availability although il n’y avait pas un chat in the entire place. I couldn’t for the life of me think of why I would have to wait 2 hours before someone could see me. I opted for a confirmed appointment the following day rather than loiter for two hours before Олга could even see me, let alone do what she had to do. That would have me home around 6PM at the earliest and that was not happening. besides, what would I do for 2 hours? I suppose that Starbucks was an option but the draw of wearing a pair yoga pants and lounging in my own livingroom was far too tempting a prospect. Although, in hindsight, a chai latté would have been heavenly.
Let the record show that with her limited English (I still think she had more than she let on) and my halting Russian, Ирина and I worked out a time and date that we both understood. Thankfully she wrote the details on a business card so I’d know exactly what she meant. Truthfully, it only confirmed that I understood that I should return the following day at 1PM ready to meet with Олга. Mr. U being out of town, galavanting across Western Europe without me this time, I had no choice but to sort myself out. Who am I kidding? Even when he is here, he encourages me to work it all out by myself in preparation for cases such as these, when I get great ideas and he is not around to do it for me. One of these days his method (madness?) will backfire all over me but today was not that day (thankfully).
 |
| http://www.nato-russia-council.info/en/articles/20130318-nrc-afghan-coop-talks-moscow/ |
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| Does the drywall patching indicate renovations or decay? |
Now can you understand why I was defaulting to my long-time friend and stylist back in Ottawa whenever I was back there these past couple of years.
It turns out that Олга is a teeny, tiny slip of a woman with a whole lot of power and endurance in her skinny, little arms. Once she found the colour swatches in her sample books and we decided on a formula for my hair, off she scooted to mix the paste that would eradicate the usurping grey hairs.
When having my colour done, I am used to a towel protecting the nape of my neck secured in place by a black, polyester cape (usually with some company logo emblazoned on the front) and a generous amount of some sort of silicone-based cream spread along my hairline to help avoid dark staining on my skin. Олга applied the cream which gave me confidence but when she plucked two tissues from the box of kleenex on the counter in front of me and tucked them into the back of my shirt, it was all I could do to not burst out laughing out of sheer nervousness. Compound that with the transparent sheet of something that can only be described as a drop cloth draped over my front and tied with tiny straps around my neck and my confidence level began to sink exponentially. All dressed up with kleenex and wrapped in a plastic bag on steroids, Олга set to work applying colour to the roots of my hair. Her method was very thorough and my confidence level once again was on the rise. When she was finished and leaving me to cook, she left the area leaving me alone with my reflection. I looked like an untidy lion. There are no photographs, do not even think about it.
I passed the required incubation time by reading War and Peace on the iPad (I’m about 1/3 of the way through) and listening to the musical offerings of the salon. I’m not sure if they were playing English music because of me or if they were playing it because it was enjoyable (I use that term loosely) but again, I had to stifle a fit of the giggles. Watch the short video and tell me what you would have done in my place!
The tunes did get better after a couple of songs but I was afraid that it was an entire album of MJ’s greatest hits recorded by a Russian woman in pain. When the instrumental arrangement of The Look of Love came on, followed by As Time Goes By, I was able to find my happy place.
Олга spent the next 15 minutes pulling the colour through my nightmare of a head of curly hair (which is now past my shoulders, BTW) and she worked so hard that she broke a sweat. At that point I decided her tip would be a bit higher than I had initially planned. She certainly earned it. Although I reconsidered my position when she slicked my hair down and made me look like PeeWee Herman. *sigh*
And now the hard part, I thought to myself. As I looked at my reflection I noticed how dark the dye was around the edges of my hairline. I was convinced that I was going to walk out of the salon with a grey ring almost an inch wide around my face. I would have to resort to the My Big Fat Greek Wedding cure-all of Windex to wipe away the stain or not show my face in public until it faded sufficiently. I don’t have bangs.
Олга, the little miracle-worker, managed to wipe my forehead clean, blow dry my hair straight and even add a little playful flip on each side. For exactly 4.7 minutes I looked like a well-coiffed woman who belonged in Moscow. Credit card swiped, receipt signed, handshake with a 500 руб note pressed into Олга’s palm later and I was out the door, feeling great about my first (and definitely not my last) hair experience.
 |
| Look Ma, no stains, no grey! |
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| note the playful flip |
Way to go, Олга. Спасибо большое
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