You Won't Believe What My Hairdresser Did

I promise the content justifies the clickbait

AI image generated with Dall•E

I’d bet my least-favorite child that no matter how hard you tried, you couldn’t guess what my hairdresser did three months ago.

LOL, you might think. I bet it’s something funny but ultimately harmless—like messing up your highlights, or asking you out on a date, or serving you regular coffee instead of decaf.

Oh, reader. You’re in for a ride.

Let’s get this out of the way: I got a breast lift in January. I didn’t know how to break the news because nowadays everything online has to be a declaration of intent, especially for women.

After much reflection, I’ve settled on just saying it and moving on:

I got a breast lift! Yay, perky boobs!

Okay. Done! Phew.

I can go more days without showering than I'm willing to admit, but I hate greasy hair, so two days after my surgery, I went to a hair salon to have it washed.

It was a no-frills local salon with a plate of mantecados¹ on the counter and sun-bleached photos of women sporting the Rachel on the walls. The owner—and sole stylist—was finishing an old lady’s old-lady cut.

“It will only be a minute,” she said.

I used my Spanish-to-normal time converter and accurately estimated it would take her fifteen to twenty minutes, during which the customer complained about her health, the current government, and the fact that winters aren’t cold enough anymore

When it was finally my turn, Mónica² started washing my hair and asked about my surgery.

“I had a breast lift,” I shared. I had spent weeks thinking about my boobs in terms of a home renovation project—considering shapes and materials, looking at pictures, comparing professionals. By then, my boobs felt no more private than my elbows.

She gave me what I’ve since learned is a pretty common response among post-breastfeeding women.

“Really? I want one too!”

We talked about it for a while—she was curious, and I was happy to share the breast surgery wisdom I’d earned at Google University.

“My boobs are not that bad,” she clarified. “I don’t want anything fancy. Just higher and maybe smaller. But I think they look great.”

And she proceeded to lift her shirt and show me her bra.

Okay, my brain said. Those are her boobs. In a bra.

But she didn’t stop there.

Yep. She went for it and showed me her bare boobs in all their glory. Oh, and she added a little bounce, you know, so I could appreciate not only the shape but also the dynamics.

I gotta say, they looked amazing! Round and symmetrical and definitely appealing to the right type of audience.

But still, this hairdresser I’d just met was showing me her actual boobs in her workplace.

I’d like to pause for a second here, dear reader, and ask you: what would you have done in my place? How would you have felt?

I’m asking because I felt giddy and excited. As a writer, I knew for a fact I’d write about it at some point. But we writers are deviants. I’m curious about appropriate reactions from non-sociopathic humans.

I complimented her boobs and, per her request, shared with her my surgeon’s Instagram profile. Then she blow-dried my hair and sent me off with a very affordable bill and a warm, zero-self-conscious hug.

The moment I left the place, I had what I call a weird expat moment—that brief brain glitch that prompts the question: Is this really abnormal, or have I just lived abroad for too long?

To test how culturally off this was, I told the story to whoever wanted to listen. Most women laughed about it and didn’t give it a second thought. Most men asked me for the salon’s address. No one was particularly appalled.

Only in Spain, I concluded fondly. That’s the thing about being an expat. Strange, even questionable behaviors take on a warm aura of cozy familiarity. Aww, you tell yourself, look at that baby awake at 11:30 p.m., her mom offering them a sip of tinto de verano³ because the face they make is hilarious.

I went to get my hair washed once more while I was still recovering from surgery. Mónica was happy as ever, with no apparent shame about her previous exhibitionism. She convinced me to trim my ends because no hairdresser on Earth has ever found a client’s ends acceptable. She told me that the electricity in Spain is so expensive that she can’t afford central heating at home, so when her daughters are cold, she blasts them with the hair dryer.

---

Since this happened, I’ve thought about Mónica’s boobs—and boobs in general—quite often. Was this episode weird? You bet. But maybe not weirder than my allowing a surgeon to cut and rearrange my skin, placing foreign objects underneath for the sake of appearance.

What I mean is, boobs are more than boobs. They are deeply connected with who we are as women. They’re judged by their shape, size—even performance. Mónica wasn't so much showing off or trying to shock me as she was reclaiming dignity for her breasts.

“Look at what they did,” she might have meant, “and yet, here they are. I’m still pretty. I’m still alive.”

Maybe she was just trying to connect with me in that boisterous, slightly inappropriate way you only get in a country where lawsuits are rare. In any case, she massaged my scalp and complimented my highlights. She fed me treats loaded with gluten, sugar, and animal fat. She trimmed my ends exactly the minimum amount I had requested.

What can I say? I’ll be back.

1. The most delicious Spanish Christmas treat, made of all the bad things—lard, flour, and sugar.

2. Of course, by then I knew her name. After spending twenty minutes waiting, I already had pretty much her whole life story

3. A typical Spanish drink consisting of red wine and soda. Verano means summer but you can drink it year-round.