Hair in Florence

jpbsn1
Apr 10
5 min read

A wildly honest, slightly hysterical tale of vanity, bad hair decisions, and one very expensive Italian salon visit

By Christine Jordaan

**Christine and Johann at the Ponte Vecchio**

“Vanity,” my mother liked to say, “killed the cat.”

And no amount of linguists, idiom dictionaries, or spiritual leaders could convince her otherwise. If you dared suggest it was actually *curiosity* that killed the cat, she’d plant her hands on her hips and declare: “Keep your otter snouts out of my conversations! If I say it’s vanity, it’s vanity. Finished and klaar.” ("Klaar" in Afrikaans means finish. So, it is like meanung this isreally finished).

I was four the first time I heard this. I’d begged her to wrap my wet hair in a stocking so I could have curls like my best friend. “Vanity,” she said philosophically, and launched into the tragic tale of the cat that had used up all seven of its lives.

“Vanity,” my mother liked to say, “killed the cat.”

By the time I was old enough to do the stocking trick myself, curls were out, and the whole thing was considered common. The damage was done: from age four, I’ve had a full-blown traumatic relationship with my hair and every hairdresser who’s ever touched it.

Fast-forward to early April in Cape Town. The migratory birds are gathering on every wire, wall and branch, planning their trip north. The females are difficult.

“I’m not flying next to Hesta. She doesn’t use roll-on, and by ten o’clock, she smells like a gym sock. I’ll need a vomit bag around my neck!”

Another shrill voice cuts in: “If my Miles flies in the same flock as that tart Kotie again, this marriage is over!” Long red nails wave dramatically as she threatens to have them both tarred and feathered in divorce court. “I’ve got contacts,” she says, flashing her lawyer’s number.

**The birds are preparing for their migration North**

It’s absolute chaos. The males sit with wings over their heads, already exhausted, and decide to drown their sorrows at The Windmill Bar.

Exactly like the birds, Johann and I were preparing for our own migration north — away from the Cape’s wet and cold winter. Our planning involved love, excitement, endless Google research, and me secretly looking up “how to commit the perfect murder” because the man was driving me insane. The fridge was wallpapered with yellow Post-its. We’d long given up on proper to-do lists (they always vanished), so we usually arrived in Europe stressed, sore-armed from miming, and still missing half the things we needed.

Eventually, only two Post-its remained:

Check visa dates
Go to the hairdresser

Johann and I were preparing for our own migration north

That second one sent my anxiety into overdrive.

Two months later, we’re in Florence. My hair is outgrown and has a nuclear colour. Johann has found us the perfect apartment one block from Piazza della Signoria. The first evening, he’s happily parked at a beer-and-pizza place, grumbling about the Americans. I’m pacing the street, racking up Fitbit steps when — EUREKA! — I spot a very fancy hair salon right next door.

Plan: Send Johann in first as a test run. We choose the George Clooney look. He emerges looking like a Greek god in clothes. My knees actually went weak.

**Johann emerges looking like a Greek god while the Americans eat pizza in the square.**

My appointment was the next day at 11:00.

I was up at dawn (practically heathen for a good Christian). Johann, still half asleep, thought it was the Second Coming. We tried to have breakfast at the place where Leonardo supposedly started the Mona Lisa, but it was full of… you guessed it… Americans. So we ended up at the piazza anyway, taking photos of David, the Americans, and a sulking Johann.

Then the big moment.

I bought three bottles of Rescue Remedy, downed the first with red wine, and Johann dropped his half-drunk, jittery wife at the salon door with a “I’ll be at the pub next door — these Americans are killing me.”

I showed the hairdresser a photo of a thirty-year-younger actress. “Like this,” I squeaked.

Inside, I was treated like royalty. Ginger tea, designer handbags on display, a chic gown, a heavenly head massage, three glasses of champagne, a mint-soaked face cloth, and four hairdressers, plus a translator, all shouting around my head.

“So far, so good!” I sang (tunelessly) while the colour was mixed. Then the Rescue wore off. Panic attack. Sent the assistant for sparkling wine. Downed the second bottle of Rescue with the bubbly. Ten minutes later, I was floating in Lala-land, with the left side of my hair noticeably shorter than the right. Old ladies and small children felt duty-bound to inform me. I slurred, “Only the left is shorter? I struggle with the blow-dry…” and floated out.

Everyone laughed at my hair. After the third Rescue and half a bottle of wine, I felt 'vere' (whatever that means).

“Too white! Too white!” the translator yelled, pointing at my roots. “Stripes in!”

I nodded. They fixed it. Then came another neck-and-shoulder massage and another glass of bubbly.

“No blow-dry,” I said firmly (I’d seen the price).

“No, no — complimentary,” the translator insisted.

“Too white! Too white!” the translator yelled, pointing at my roots. “Stripes in!”

A girl who spoke zero English went to town with the hairspray. I left looking like Camilla Parker Bowles after a wind tunnel test.

I left looking like Camilla Parker Bowles after a wind tunnel test.

Then came the bill.

It was more than 10 times the listed price. Two Americanos, six champagnes, two massages, the “complimentary” blow-dry, the gown, the cloth… everything was itemised. I paid. I waved goodbye to the Louis Vuitton handbag I’d had my eye on.

Mom was right all along. Vanity didn’t just kill the cat — it also murdered my bank balance in the middle of Florence.

I shot out of that salon like Flash Gordon. I’m pretty sure my Roman lash extensions and French tan are still lying on the reception floor.

If you’re ever in Florence and want to see where it all went wrong, the salon is right next to the beer-and-pizza place on the corner by Piazza della Signoria. You’ve been warned.