New hair and stuff.

My friend Jessica (whose son, Nico, I used to be babysit for about once a week for over a year while doing my Italian teaching certificate at Montclair State University) recommended a great hairdresser to go to here in Italy. So my bike and I headed to the next town over, Busto Arsizio, to get a much-needed haircut. Except, as soon as I get to Busto, I have no idea where I am. (Don't even try to tell me that I should have gotten a map-- if it's not of a big city, they don't exist!) I stop at a bike store to buy a bike lock and possibly ask for directions but an old man more than thrice my age in a suit on a bike that's probably also thrice my age tells me it's closed. So I kindly ask him for some directions and he insists on guiding me the way there on bike. (One thing I do love about Italians-- they will bend over backwards to help you out if you ask and are also full of all kinds of information all about their town and every single person who lives in it.) Suddenly, though, I realize that we're racing through the streets of Busto as if competing in the Tour D'Italia, between traffic and streetlights, and that my octogenarian guide must be Lance Armstrong's granddaddy. At one point, he even turned around to ask me if he should slow down for me...!

Anyway, it all ended well-- he even offered to wait for me to lead me back to the train station! I should have gotten his number and made him my personal trainer. Ah well.


Just a few silly pics to celebrate finally looking presentable in public.




Might be what I look like in 50 years, post-plastic surgery, post losing all my teeth.



After I stuck my finger in the socket (obviously.)


Sumfin smells funky...wait, what? Oh.




Despite feeling appropriately Italian with funky cut and all, it won't last for long. Why? I gotta cut the fauxhawk again. For a few reasons:

1. About a year ago, I made a bet with my boyfriend that he wouldn't be able to grow out his hair to a nice, shaggy/funky 'do (i.e., he would get sick of the awkward "in between" stage and just shave it all off again.) Bet was that if I won, I get the hairstyle I want on him and if he won, I cut the fauxhawk. Well, as you can see in our Ibiza pictures, he's winning.
   
2. I really hate hair. All kinds. Any kind. I've always told people that I would love love love to shave my head someday. I'm still hoping to do it but right now (being a teacher and tutor, i.e., a semi-professional) is not the time.
3. I figure it would be a great way to deter scummy Italian men (I'll have to make a separate post just on that in the near future), something I, and most women here in Italy have to do on a daily basis here. When I had the fauxhawk in 2005, I can barely remember 1 guy hitting on me (instead, chicks were-- but that was much easier to deal with.) But here, every single day, men of every age, weight, color, race and shoe size, on bikes, in cars, on foot, rollerblades, with canes, suits, sweats or sneakers speak, whisper, yell or whistle cat calls to girls and women that look beddable (which pretty much only cancels out a small sample of the female population.) It's degrading, demoralizing, disgusting, and any other pejorative adjective I can think of that begins in de- or dis-. Needless to say, I abhor it. And as for self-defense? Ignoring them is the best way (and the only safe way) to handle the situation. Unfortunately, nothing really can be done about the situation unless you want to risk your own safety (after all, you never really know what people are capable of...and you certainly don't want to find out, so better not respond to avoid a potential provocation.)
   

Anyway, I do realize that if I did like having hair, I'd be cutting the fauxhawk for all the wrong reasons. But that's not the case. I love short hair. It makes life sooo much easier! I got a pixie cut for the first time in 2000 and remember saying to myself "Christ! Men have it easy!" Haha. Cuts down showering and self-preparation time by 30 minutes, if not more.