Compost Studios

It’s spring, and the world is a wonderful place, vibrant and sweet smelling and full of promise.

Mother Nature is giving me an inferiority complex because I definitely can’t match her bright new look or enthusiasm. I’ve felt dumpy, frumpy, and forgettable and sick of living in my cords and turtlenecks. It’s still chilly here, getting in the 40s at night, hitting the 60s on a good day and so I haven’t broken into the cheerful summer duds. I haven’t even pulled them all out because the reality is that a lot of them don’t fit me—another cause of woe. (Update on the deportation of the expat fat coming soon!)

So what’s a Grrrl to do when she doesn’t feel pretty? Shop of course. I braved dressing room induced depression and tried on about seven pairs of pants and capris, three summer sweaters, one skirt, two t-shirts, a hoodie, and an adidas fitness outfit. Nothing worked out. The single pair of pants I really liked were available in every size except the one I needed.

So I surrendered my fashion fantasies and went to the cosmetic section instead. I’d tossed out a lot of old makeup this week so I bought some new eyeshadow, foundation, concealer, and mascara—nothing expensive. Decided a soft spring floral fragrance would boost my mood and so I splurged on Lancome’s “So Magic,” which I’d been sampling for months but never succumbed to buying.

E and the kids went to the garden and sports center while I finished shopping for the everyday necessities at the PX. Finally my cart was full and I was ready to checkout but didn’t have money or a credit card. Because I ride the Metro and frequently travel into the center of Brussels where the pickpockets lurk, I make it a habit to carry minimal cash and no credit cards. So I waited for E to return so he could pay for our stuff and we could move on to grocery shopping at the commissary. And I waited and waited and waited and waited.

He’d told me all they needed to buy was a softball, bat, badminton birdies, and cat litter. Where the hell were they? I try calling E on his cell—no answer. An hour passes from the time I finished shopping! I’m rehearsing the ugly speech I plan to deliver when E shows his face again. They were only supposed to be gone about 20 minutes!

Finally I give up waiting on him and head over to the hair salon which is located off the entry way to the building. As long as I’m stuck here, I’ll get a shampoo and a haircut. Just the thought of suds and warm water is soothing. I haven’t yet developed an ongoing relationship with a single stylist. Each time I get my hair cut, someone new does it.

This is a good and bad thing. I get a little nervous, but I rationalize it keeps me from getting the exact same cut over and over again. I’m always hoping that a fresh set of eyes will deliver a new look and eventually I’ll end up with something (and someone) I really love. While waiting for E to return I’d read all the hairstyle magazines in the store but hadn’t seen anything that inspired me so I don’t even have a visual aid to give to the stylist.

The last time I came here I told the French-speaking stylist to trim off less than an inch and make my hair less round and more shaggy. The result was definitely less round, not necessarily “shaggy” but it looked pretty good. I was satisfied with it, if not wowed. I give the latest French-speaking stylist the exact same directive. She doesn’t ask any questions, just picks up her scissors and gets to work.

Hmmm, she starts cutting in the back and it’s feeling kind of short, but I’m not a woman who is afraid of short hair—I won’t panic unless she gets out clippers. She cuts the sides next and points with her finger—“You want line here?” What line is she talking about? Not my part because my part is still visible. Um, I’m not sure, what we’re talking about, and so I look to where she’s pointing, an area just above my ear and say, “OK.” Then I say a prayer that she’s not going to cut my hair over my ear because I’m not ready for whitewalls. Been there done that.

She finishes that side, “OK?” she asks. Hmmm, not sure exactly where this haircut is going, it’s quite a bit shorter, but I’m not bald yet and she hasn’t pulled out the clippers so I say, “Yes.”

She does the other side, then asks me about my bangs. While I can be adventurous about having stylists do their own thing with my hair, I do live in terror of short bangs. With naturally curly hair, short bangs are the greatest hair disaster. Even if they’re not super short, the wrong bangs can transform me to dowdy old fart faster than you can say Mamie Eisenhower. Not to mention that the shorter you cut curly hair into bangs, the more likely you are to get rotelli shapes sticking out from the hairline or a big puffball of frizz hovering above the forehead.

I tell her I like long bangs, worn to the side, framing my face. She cuts them a bit and is done. Do I want my hair dried? Sure I say. I expect the usual mousse and scrunch routine but she pulls out a round brush and I realize she’s going to blow my hair out straight. I never wear my hair straight (too lazy to fight my curls), but hey I’m game. Let’s go for it.

Bit by bit she pulls my hair through the brush. The dryer feels hot and burns my ears. The brush pricks the skin around my face and neck. I watch myself in the mirror and wonder where this is heading. As she moves from the back to the front, I think I’m starting to look a little bit like the mom in the Brady Bunch. My heart clenches a bit, “Oh God, I don’t want to look like Florence Henderson!”

When she finishes, she tucks some pieces behind my ears with a smidge of gel. And I like it. I like it a lot. I had no idea my hair could be so smooth and glossy. I can see highlights I didn’t even know I had. I love the way the bangs dip over one eye and the way the back has bit of volume. Best of all, by seriously tapering the shape of my haircut, she’s softened my jawline, which has gotten square in the last few years, and she drew attention to my cheekbones.

I tell her happily, “C’est bon!”

When I leave the salon and find E waiting, it takes him a moment to recognize me. I see a friend from Brussels and she doesn’t recognize me at first either. I’m happy not to recognize myself.

I slip on a new pair of sunglasses, step out into the sunshine, and leave my dumpy, frumpy self behind.

(Check out the photos of my new look in my photo album. For a glimpse of my “old hair,” look at the birthday pictures from late January.)

April 24, 2006