A tall and peroxided man has descended from the heavens. He has laid the hand of God upon my hair.
He is Sasha, owner of Schnittstelle in Mitte, hairstylist of my cousin, and just the right amount of bossy.
Monday I sat before his mirror. I freed my head o' straw from its ever-present ponytail.
"What's this? Did someone take a razor to your hair?!" The man knew whereof he spoke. I confessed to visiting an unfamiliar Friseur in New York last year. She chunked-up my 'do in January and still I pay the price.
"Next time someone pulls a razor," he ordered, "get out of that chair and run."
"Okay," I said.
A guy with poured-on jeans shampooed me. Conditioned. Damage-treated. Stroked my scalp until it sighed.
I returned to Sasha with the small dead bear upon my head. Small dead wet bear. He fingered the matted fur.
"The water in Berlin is so hard," I complained. "It's uglying my hair."
"What?! New York has the worst water!" Apparently Sasha visits Manhattan often. The parents of his British wife live in Jersey. "All that chlorine. Terrible."
"Um, well, I don't know which water is better," I said quickly. "Just, it's different."
"Maybe," he said, softening, "the water is not as bad in Brooklyn. And where do you live now?"
"Friedrichshain."
"Perhaps the water there is worse." Then he took it back. "No way."
"Okay," I said.
He stood behind me, wielding scissors. "I advise that we leave the layers alone. They need to grow."
"Okay," I said.
"I advise that we cut the bottom shorter to meet the sides."
"Okay," I said.
"I advise that we make the bangs less heavy."
"Okay," I said.
It didn't take long. He perfected the bangs. Then: "How do you dry it?"
"I blow-dry it, with a big round brush." I said this proudly, drawing my hand away from my head to demonstrate the roll of the brush. It had taken me a long time to master the technique. And it took a long time, and much willingness, to perform this task after every washing.
"Oh God, no," said Sasha. "Big New York hair!"
"Not big," I stuttered. "Just to straighten it..."
"No," he said. He danced the blow-dryer over my head, pulling his fingers lightly through the layers. "This is all you need."
"Okay," I said.
"I will give you a sample shampoo. It should help with the water."
"Okay," I said.
It is okay to say okay and okay and okay when you know the Friseur knows exactly what he is doing. And I did.
I left the salon with soft, flirty waves. Only 36 Euros the poorer.
I woke up Tuesday morning with soft, flirty waves. I woke up Wednesday morning with soft, flirty waves. I sit here and type with soft, flirty waves.
The bear is gone. Glory glory. Thanks be to Sasha.
halleluja and amen!
Posted by: Julie | September 05, 2007 at 08:02 PM
After this memorable visit to the "Friseur" who turned your enviable mop (Papi's mop is thinning and I never had an abundance like that) of hair into soft waves, the parentals would love a photo post. Would we recognize you if we secretly flew back to Berlin and sat in your favorite Café.
Hugs, thinking of you with pride and love, Mami
Posted by: Moms in San Francisco | September 06, 2007 at 10:55 AM
My thinking is the same as Mom's (hi to the parentals!)-- Where's the photo? Photos of hummus in a can and none of your restored, renewed and well done do??? Inquiring eyes want to see! Please.
Posted by: Posemary | September 06, 2007 at 04:44 PM
Hmmm. I will take your pleas into consideration... :-)
Posted by: Lilan | September 07, 2007 at 07:28 AM