La parruchiere

One of the saddest moments I had leaving New York was my last cut and color at Antonio Prieto. I felt as though I had finally ended a five year quest for the perfect stylist and colorist only months earlier. Brian was able to give me the perfect sweep of bangs that looked great either curly or straight. He even taught me how to make the cowlick in the front of my head work to my advantage. Michael got my hair the perfect rich dark brown shade on the first try. I had no idea how I could find a Roman replacement. Many people suggested asking people who have great hair where they get it cut. This sounds like a good idea, but in practice I didn't feel like chasing any people down on the street. Rome is a bit like New York were the number of people trying to ask you for money far outnumbers the people who have legitimate questions so people are unlikely to stop. Besides, what do you do about finding a colorist? You can't really approach someone and say, "Who covers your grey so well?" Instead I have been walking by salons and scoping out the clientel while they are in the chair.

Although my husband's parting with his stylist, Faith at John Allan's, was probably less emotional, it was still a great loss for him and his needs to find a replacement were more urgent than mine. The bar had been set high by John Allan's, the man's answer to the salon. With a yearly membership fee and a "no girls allowed" policy it is more of a club than a barbershop. The standard 'treatment' there begins with a beer. Along with a shampoo comes a scalp massage and a hot towel. During the haircut a manicurist files and buffs your nails. You finish up with a shoe shine and if you want, a round of pool. This is what I hear from my husband--I, of course, have never seen the marvels for myself. He went there every two weeks, though I'm not sure he really needed his haircut that often.



Not long after we arrived here, we wandered past a place called "Contesta Rockhair." My shaggy haired husband was in a pretty desperate state and he actually suggested going inside. We approached the desk, which like everything else in the place, was covered with graffiti. We asked the guy behind it, who was sporting a hairstyle straight out of the film Pretty in Pink, if we could get a cut anytime soon. He simply said, "No" and then gestured in the general direction of both the couch and the door. We didn't know what to do but we sat on the couch watching the stylists work with no idea how long we would be there. The music was so loud we had to shout at each other. We felt the urge to get up and leave, but out of desperation, we waited. Finally someone came and took Chris away to shampoo him. I didn't witness the shampoo but I'm sure there was no scalp massage or hot towel. The guy who cut Chris's hair suggested that his former stylist had left his hair too long because she was afraid of all the cowlicks he had. Cowlicks? I'd never seen any cowlicks... He proceeded to crop the hair closely using a comb that he would sometimes smack with the scissors in rhythm to the music sending little pieces of hair flying. He took a break now and then to kiss and fawn over various women who paraded through the salon, only sometimes removing the scissors from my husband's head during the sundry embraces. In the end it was a little short, but not bad considering what could have happened while he was distracted during the make out sessions.



The next day when we were making breakfast I noticed my husband, after a night of sleep, now had wings at either side of his head where the hair stuck straight out. Apparently the hitherto invisible cowlicks had been unleashed by the 'rock' haircut he had received. (I'm sorry there is no accompanying photo for this blog entry but my husband grew suspicious when I broke out the camera at 7 am and focused it on his head). I am still scoping out alternatives for us but just like the grocery stores, you probably have to try a few to find a good one. I just hope no more cowlicks pop up in the meantime.