This week was my second installment of Project get-your-game-face-on. Quite frankly, I had to take the hint. I was receiving an unreasonable amount of mail (not spam mind you, from people who actually know me) regarding Brazilian Hair Treatments. So, despite my fear (and part-loathing) of hairdressers, I went to Moments in Time.
I should start by saying that any Salon called Moments in Time is a little bit of a euphemism. A block of chocolate is a moment in time, a glimpse of a good-looking bloke is a moment in time, hell, even taking a pee is a moment in time. The salon should be called “Lifetime Commitment”, because that is roughly the amount of time that one needs to spend in there, in order for it to make a difference. That and of course, it’s also roughly the amount of money that one needs to spend.
Sigh. What can I say; I was seduced by the words “Brazilian” and “Special”. I have a special affinity (a.k.a weakness) for all things Brazilian. It started when my best friend and I travelled there in our 20’s. You can only imagine my utter joy when I discovered that Brazilian men love buxom butts. Hooray, that would make it a whole ONE COUNTRY that digs chicks with generous butts – making Brazil, my own personal Mecca.
We thought we’d totally blend in (me with said buxom butt plus ethno-curly hair, her generally gorgeous with olive skin). We didn’t. We stuck out like sore thumbs, which was actually a good thing in the end because we were broke and we needed all the favours that the locals could provide to unwitting foreigners.
Even including the flasher on the beach (who does that kind of shit?) it was one of the best weeks of my life. Lets also not forget about Brazil nuts and Brazilian soccer teams – just to re-enforce the love affair.
But back to Moments in Time. After the inevitable “you’ve recently done your colour” question (emphasis on the YOU - Oh the SHAME!), the utterly adorable hairdresser sits down next to me to explain the procedure. Procedure, I think to myself, that doesn’t sound very quick. He goes between sounding boastful (as in, yeah baby, look at the schiz we accomplish here) and apologetic (as in, you fool, you didn’t really know what was entailed, did you?)
First, he says, we wash your hair twice. (it looks that dirty, I wonder)? Then, we rough dry it. I warn him how frightening my hair is when rough dried (think Cameron Diaz’s hair in the movie “Being John Malkovich”). Then, he says, we apply the mixture. What’s in it, I say hopefully, Brazil nuts?
It’s at this point that things get a bit vague. There’s a bit of mumbling about how the “mixture” doesn’t contain formaldehyde anymore (oh yay), just a derivative thereof (um, riiiight). When they apply it, I notice that they’re not going right down to the scalp (where the offending frizz is born). Why? I ask. Again with the vagueness. “It’s just not good for you. And it reaches the root anyway when the heat is applied.”
Ah, the dreaded heat. How hot? I ask. Well, it has to be set at two thousand degrees Celsius (OK, that part is an exaggeration. But hot, like in the 200’s). After they painted the stuff on, painstakingly section by section, I am put under the climatizer which is very sci-fi and not Brazilian looking at all. I can’t help but feel that some Brazilian music at this point might be helpful. You know, to complete the illusion of this being a fun activity. And finally, it has to be flat-ironed seven, yes only SEVEN, times.
What can I say? Hairdressers are Extremely Patient, Extremely Dexterous, Extremely Entertaining and Extremely Good at getting us to enjoy what is technically, another barbaric treatment.
I’m so having a word with Cleopatra when I get to wherever she’s gone. What’s up with all this near death experience shit all in the name smooth hair and skin? Next week I’ll let you know how the whole bathing in milk thing went.
P.S. It really is a fabulous salon!
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