Maybe it was a half-hearted attempt, but I was waiting to cut my hair so I could possibly get an Argentinian style haircut (in a land where mullets and rat-tails reign supreme).  It's been over two months since my last haircut and I couldn't take the mess that's been growing on my head since. With now way to style it, I was forced to wear a hat all day every day.


So yesterday I stormed out of the apartment in search of a barber, but it was a miserable attempt. The first stylist I came upon had a poster in the window that made him look like a gay mass murderer.  As I stared at his less then fabulous promotion photo, I slowly realized that I didn't even know how to say "I need a haircut" in Spanish.  So with my tail between my legs, I returned home in defeat much to Elizabeth's amusement about to the whole situation.  After she finished laughing at my raising anxiety, we convinced our roommate to role play with us to bring us up to speed and prevent a botched haircut.



The next day, Elizabeth tagged along for moral support (or to document the disaster) and we ventured out a little further then the death den I had previously found.  After a brief confusion about whether we were ringing the doorbell of the salon or a neighbor, we ended up in very capable hands.



Apparently one thing that outs me as a foreigner is my ability to sweat through a haircut.
Haircut accomplished and now everything is right in my world. I'm about 5 lbs lighter I'm sure.