life lately...

in...

out…

eat…

the haircut

I gave Greg a haircut last week.

And it reminded me why I’ve been so frustrated with my hair lately… My last haircut was in Utah, two weeks after London was born.

He’s now SEVEN months old.

It was time… far past time actually, to face up to another fear: a haircut, in a foreign language.

***

It took a solid week to talk myself into it.

THE DAY arrived.

I walked toward the salon. Google Translate in hand. Repeating over and over in my mind: “Você tem tempo para cortar o cabelo? Eu não tenho um compromisso…”

You can do this.

I remind myself that regardless of what my hair looks like afterward, as long as there’s less of it, today will be a win. And the relief will be, well, a relief.

Only one street to cross before I walk through the front door and I notice their phone number on the store front…

Perhaps it would be better to call and set up an actual appointment, I think… then I wouldn’t have to do this today.

The procrastinator in me LOVES this idea. The part fed up with unruly hair does not.

After a brief internal battle, the unruly hair proves too much to overcome.

Please just Walk. Through. The. Door. Then it will be too late. You’ll have to stay.

I do.

Cautiously approaching the front desk, I spit out a nervous “Eu falo português poco …” with a smile, then regurgitate the phrase I’ve been practicing all the way here.

They laugh a little and nod encouragingly.

And I get a little taste of the relief that’s coming… I’m in!

But then they hand me a wad of material and point behind me, explaining their gestures in Portuguese as though I could understand.

The only thing I see is a stand that holds plastic bags to put your umbrella in when its raining.

It is not raining today.

I look back and forth between their pointing and the umbrella stand several times before I realize they might be pointing at my purse! Maybe this is a bag for my purse?

Yes… they definitely want me to put my purse in this wad of material.

I shake it out. it is a ginormous piece of fabric. I look questioning back at the receptionist… this is right?

No. Definitely not right.

She hands me a key on a large keychain and points in a different direction.

All I see are sinks and mirrors.

She points again. then points back at my purse.

Ah… lockers, in the far corner.

My turn to point… Me? to the lockers? Yes?

Yes.

I find my locker, deposit the purse.

Turn back toward the front desk, glancing around casually yet purposefully (something I’ve surely perfected by now), trying to figure out what to do with this giant wad of fabric I’m still holding.

I see a woman who’s getting a haircut… she is WEARING the giant wad of fabric.

It’s a robe.

I attempt to find the arms without looking too clumsy, though the show I’ve put on so far has surely betrayed the effort.

A friendly tech approaches. He finds the arms, helps me inside, knots the ties behind me.

Thankfully, he speaks just enough English…

“Wash? This way.”

I settle into the reclined chair and close my eyes.

Wash, condition, scalp massage!

Well that was nice.

“Finish!” he says. “Massage?”

I of course nod an enthusiastic YES PLEASE!!!

He leads me over to a tall stool. I sit. He places a towel over my shoulders and for a few, lovely, all too short moments, gives my shoulders a massage.

I enjoy them immensely.

But I also can’t help but wonder… am I paying extra for this? Wait, I didn’t even ask how much the haircut would cost... it’ll be worth it (hopefully?).

Hair washed, shoulders massaged, my tech leads me over to a station, Paula’s station. His job is done.

Stylist Paula has obviously been warned that I don’t speak Portuguese. Either that or she was privy to my earlier, confusion-filled show. Most likely the latter…

I use my hands and two simple words to explain how I want my hair cut: “longo” in the front, “baixa” in the back.

She looks confused.

I repeat. the words and the hand gestures.

Still confused......

(not until I return home do I realize my lingo is incorrect)

“um minuto…” she walks away.

I resume my casual yet purposeful gaze, pretending this is going exactly as it should.

She returns with a different tech… who speaks English!

I explain the angled bob I’d like.

Tech translates.

Paula shakes her head.

Tech translates: your hair is too short for that.

?

I don’t think it is… It doesn’t need to be SO angled. Just a little.

Tech translates.

Paula nods.

We exchange hand signals to settle on the desired length.

The process begins.

I once again resume my casual yet purposeful gaze.

There’s a woman across from me getting her eyebrows threaded. Another getting her nails done. And oh hello… an overly-observant tech staring at me in the mirror.

I quickly glance away, but of course look back to see if he’s still staring.

Yep.

Hmm. This is awkward.

I attempt to continue “acting natural” but I can feel my failure.

Before long, the friendly tech that washed my hair brings me a couple magazines to browse.

I thank him and wonder if he was watching the awkward exchange of glances… if that is what prompted his kind act.

Either way, I’m thankful to have something to look at.

I skim the articles, looking for words I know, sure that the tech behind me is amused.

I can’t read these words. I know it. He knows it.

A fresh appreciation for all of my previous hair stylists overwhelms me.

I used to be annoyed by the mindless chatter of hair salons. I used to wish for silence, to fully embrace the reprieve that a haircut offers from my normal.

Today I have the silence! But knowing that I can’t effectively communicate - if I wanted to - lessons the experience a bit.

I make a mental note to not be annoyed 3 years from now, when we’re back in the US and the celebrity gossip resumes.

Paula is almost finished. She holds up a mirror to show me the 360° view.

My hair is nearly the same length it was when I arrived.

Back to the hand signals.

She beckons over the English-speaking tech.

Shorter. Yes, ok.

I realize that in the US, I would have said nothing. I have a strange aversion to disagreeing with hair stylists.

But I need a haircut. Bad.

And if I don’t get it this time, I have to do this whole thing again. and soon.

which is something I’d rather not do.

So the Emily in Brazil voices her true opinion. And it feels good.

When Paula wraps up cut #2, I like what I see.

Oh sweet relief. We’re nearly there.

Paula is joined by the original, friendly tech.

They both wield hair dryers.

Is this normal? Or is this taking too long?

I have no idea.

When the cut is complete, I tell Paula thank you and head to the lockers to retrieve my purse.

Where should I put this robe? I don’t see a hamper, so I awkwardly (feels that way at least) give it to the receptionist. I’m sure that is not the right thing to do, but she kindly takes it anyway.

She tells me my total, but speaks too fast for me to understand. I give her my card and hope for the best.

Not bad!

Additional source of relief: I can afford to return here! - and next time will surely be less… everything.

I sigh a happy sigh as I thank the receptionist and head toward the door.

I’m feeling confident. I have conquered the haircut.

Then I trip over the doorframe on my way out.

And… yep, the receptionist saw it. I bet my overly-observant tech friend did too.

Expectations, cont.

My first call to set the ice cream down came from Psalm 63:

“Because your steadfast love is better than life, my lips will praise you.
So I will bless you as long as I live; in your name I will lift up my hands.
My soul will be satisfied as with fat and rich food, and my mouth will praise you with joyful lips…”

“… as with fat and rich food…”

ie: enough with the ice cream. it won’t satisfy what you need it to. please try praise instead.

Thus began a slow unveiling. a learning of His desire and capacity to uniquely satisfy my soul here… all by exposing two very-important-yet-very-skewed, self-created definitions:

Adventure.

When I thought about this word previously, in the context of Brazil, my mind drifted immediately to big, obvious, wonder-full notions… like introducing my kids to the world and fostering an appreciation for travel, culture, people and language.

These anticipations would, of course, naturally be accomplished through frequent explorations (aka: adventures) in the city, in the country, and through the whole of South America.

It was a lovely plan.

Here’s the catch: prior to our arrival, I knew we would be living in a new country AND I knew that I would still be a stay at home mom.

This would not be one giant, family backpacking trip. I knew that. I knew that I would be accompanied by my increasingly independent toddler AND my utterly dependent, arm (and time) consuming babe. I knew to expect nap times. early bedtimes. more solo hours parenting. less familiarity and ease in getting out. I knew all of this.

To my subconscious self though, the anticipations of a new country trumped the daily life I knew to expect. It was easier to daydream about grand family adventures in the world than the “normal” ventures of stay-at-home life.

And so my definition of adventure, in the context of Brazil, was based more on my experience and love for traveling abroad and less on the predictable rhythms of living abroad.

Self.

Similarly, in the context of Brazil, I saw myself first and foremost as an intrepid explorer.

Because I love traveling, I would acclimate quickly to a new culture.

Because language is crucial, I would study furiously and speak fearlessly.

Because I have now moved TWICE with a bucket-list of items unchecked, I would intentionally embrace the fullness of our new city.

And because our time is limited, I would do it all NOW.

And then we moved to Brazil.

And the intrepid explorer encountered bureaucracy. and obstacles. and delays. and fear.

Exploring within the walls of our new home became insufficient quickly. Yet I was overwhelmed by the idea of navigating the city while managing the temperaments and schedules of two kids by myself (hello new mom of TWO).

When the three of us did venture out, we were usually accompanied by our relocation specialist to a variety of office buildings: the bank, the notary, the doctor… then vaccination clinics and government agencies. We spent countless hours sitting in cubicles to obtain required ID numbers, a local bank account, and London’s four-month vaccinations.

Please note: government agencies and vaccination clinics were not among the bucket-list items I was anxious to embrace.

So there I was. in Brazil. yet feeling confined and unable to unleash the intrepid explorer.

which left me…

Confused. and frustrated.

***

A New Perspective 

In His gentle, grace-filled way, God revealed that my very-important-yet-very-skewed working definitions were the overflow of a very skewed “either/or” mentality:

I am either an intrepid explorer or I am a stay at home mom.

This season is either full of wonderfully big adventures or it is simply not an adventure.

Oh how this mentality wrapped myself into the quaintest of boxes.

I can now appreciate the truth and beauty of living a “both/and” reality.

I am both traveler and mom. wife and writer. timid learner and fearless leader.

I am, equally, all of the intricacies God so delicately designed within me.

And the beauty of this particular place, in this particular season, is that it provides an abundance of space for ALL the facets of my being to be… wonder-filled. intensely engaged, stretched, expressed, and appreciated.

Each in time, though sometimes all at once.

And adventure? It is both / and, just like me.

It is big and obvious and wonder-full and it is small, ordinary, miss-able.

It is exploring intrepidly someplace new and it is learning to thrive within familiar, daily rhythms.

Today’s adventure: narrowly escaping sharks in the “ocean” that is our living room rug.

Next weekend: the city zoo

Someday soon: a weekend outside our city’s borders

worthy adventures, every one of them.