Stylist for Rent...

A Cut Above or Into Thin Hair?

I've always been pretty flexible...meaning that I am willing to adapt to and accommodate any situation where my services need to be rendered.  Basically, I'm up for the challenge.  As a hair stylist there are two essentials needed to be successful anywhere in the world:  the ability and the tools.  One of which fits nicely in my head and the other can be carried around in a convenient, non-effeminate shoulder bag. I've never gotten hung-up on the particulars of where I cut hair and I believe this has served me well both in the States and in Ecuador.  

Two thoughts occurred to me the other day as I was walking back down the mountain from a hair appointment:  1) This is pretty crazy and 2) How the heck did I get here?  I'm pretty sure I wondered both of those things out loud.  The walk back down to our house in the valley was amazing and (literally) breathtaking.  It was twenty minutes of rough gravel and cobblestone road carved out of the foothills winding through two, maybe three, small indigenous villages.  I smiled as I walked and said my obligatory "holas" and "buenas tardes" to everyone I passed along the way.  As I huffed and puffed, like the little engine who could and coolly sweated through my black shirt with my ten to fifteen pounds of gear slung around my chest, those two thoughts emerged.  This is pretty crazy that I am in Ecuador wandering the countryside and surrounding villages cutting hair in people's homes.  Sure, the extra money is great and I do love meeting new people, but it is indeed crazy, nonetheless.  How the heck did I get here?  Well, that question offered me a few moments of reflection and great memories.

It all began innocently enough sitting on the bathroom counter of my mom and dad's house.  The first cut is always the hardest...fortunately, I was my first client.  As I carefully watched my hands and scissors while trying to synch them to the reflection in the mirror, history was made.  As far as I can recall, I was satisfied with the result and realized that I had some confidence in the ability to not screw up my hair.  The dates are a little fuzzy, but I'm going to say this was 1990ish.  Hair styles around that time were just beginning to transition from Bon Jovi to Nirvana.  Pretty much going from horrible to horrible.  So, in hindsight, it didn't matter what my hair looked like.

After that fateful day, I began expanding my skills using myself and others as guinea pigs...which, FYI, are a delicacy in Ecuador.  I believe the first person who let me cut their hair was my dad.  He had massive amounts of lustrous, glistening salt-n-pepper hair that softly framed his bearded face like some better-looking Kenny Rogers or Jerry Garcia.  That was a big deal for me...my dad trusted me and had enough faith in my ability to let me touch his hair with scissors...very cool.  I think I did pretty good because I was neither grounded or asked to not quit my day job.  My confidence grew from that first experience and so did my clientele.  My friends liked the idea of me cutting their hair because not only was I willing to go to them, but they could get creative with payment...it was truly a win-win situation.  Needless to say, I didn't have to pay for beers very often! 

I have cut hair in some pretty interesting places:  garages, basements, patios, front porches, kitchens, living rooms, bathrooms, balconies, terraces, driveways...you get the gist.  However, I was about to cut hair someplace I had never expected.  In 1996, Laura and I were married and we promptly moved to Durango, Colorado.  We were working at a beautiful ranch at approximately 8500 feet above sea level and getting to cut hair in the Rocky Mountains.  During the two years we spent in both Colorado and Arizona, I was consistently cutting and coloring hair for random transient friends, coworkers and vagabonds.  It was a great time in my life and a remarkable experience that I will never forget.  Laura and I bonded as newlyweds and indulged in an extraordinary lifestyle and got lost in the beauty of our surroundings.  My confidence as a non-licensed stylist was at a new high...and elevation.

After our stint out west, we returned to Indiana to be closer to our families and to maybe set some roots.  Laura returned to working for attorneys and I attempted to pursue a career using my Bachelor's Degree in Journalism.  That didn't really pan out.  I tripped and stumbled around to different jobs with varying degrees of failure and disappointment.  At some point, I realized that maybe I had made a mistake choosing to major in Journalism with and Art minor.  Sure, I enjoyed those things, but I really needed to make a little money.  Laura suggested I go to Beauty School and become "legal" as a hair stylist.  Since our return to Indiana, I was back cutting hair for our friends and family and having a good time doing it.  So it made complete sense that I should pursue this hobby as a career...problem solved.  Without going into detail, beauty school sucked.  It was the worst year-and-a-half of my life...I was a pilgrim in an unholy land.  Still, to this day, it ranks as one of the most dysfunctional places I have ever spent time.  I was also still working full-time, dealing with family issues and trying to have a relationship with my new bride...what doesn't kill you should make you stronger, or bitter.

I finished beauty school and took a job at a cute Aveda salon in Southport.  It was a new experience actually working on clients who paid and expected perfection.  I broke a few eggs at first, but found my footing and honed my skills, learning from my mistakes.  About six months into this new gig as a paid stylist, I was offered the opportunity to buy the salon where I was working.  "Sure, why not?"  Which, curiously, still seems to be the mantra for our life right now.  Ownership had its ups-and-downs...the highs were high but the lows were much, much lower.  It wore us down over eight years and I often questioned if I was truly happy cutting hair.   In spite of everything, I was still a stylist at heart and still felt a passion for what I had chosen to do...it was a part of me now and reflected a part of my character.  I'm an aging rock star who just can't stop making music and going on tour...sounds kinda glamorous or maybe, kinda crazy.

My twenty-minute walk down the mountain was enlightening.  I think we are all put here on Earth to be a certain person and to excel in certain things in such a short time.  We are tested along the way and our fortitude and confidence is often questioned.  At the end of the day, it's just life and our choices on any given day lead us somewhere or nowhere.  I'm glad to be where I am and to have had the opportunity to be a stylist for rent.  The walk through the mountains has been amazing.

A Very Super Market...

Where's Waldo?

We traveled by bus the other day to Otavalo to experience all the wonder that is the open-air market. 

Here is a brief explanation, a bit of history, some research and my two cents:    The Otavalo market is the oldest and most important Indian market in South America which  takes place every Saturday high in the Andes.  For 4,000 years, this market has served as the social and economic heartbeat of the northern highlands. Interestingly, it is Ecuador’s most popular destination after the Galapagos Islands. The otherwise quiet town wakes at dawn to a cacophony of chickens, cows and sheep and the trading of hemp, saddles, vegetables, grain, and textiles.  Bartering seems to come naturally for the many, many brightly dressed Otavalenos who have converged from near and far away. There are tourist trinkets galore, such as:  pottery, weavings, jewelry, carved wooden animals and I may or may not have seen a random AC/DC shoulder bag.  It is apparent that the expats and visitors come mainly for the authentic local atmosphere and the Indian population is here to swap livestock, provisions and local news and soccer scores.  Arriving early on Saturday affords you the sights and smells of the animal market which winds down around 8 a.m.  The busses from Quito, with throngs of salivating, fair-skinned Europeans with deep pockets and bad haircuts, arrives around 10 a.m.  I am convinced that, as a general rule, European travelers are completely content and secure in their rudeness...just an observation.

The market was completely overwhelming and our senses were on overload...it was truly hard to focus.  Not to mention that, on the bus ride into town, we passed a brightly colored, American-style playground that Eli reminded us about every five to ten seconds or so while walking from the bus stop to the market.  He was relentless.  There were so many layers to this market and just when you felt like you had seen it all there would be another layer or offshoot that had to be explored.  It was a beautiful day in the mountains complete with blue sky and big fluffy clouds adorning the volcanoes and surrounding mountain peaks.  The sun was intense and me and Eli's tender skin was taking an equatorial beating. 

We retreated to a quaint little pizza joint off a main street and decided to get some lunch.  While waiting for our pizza, Eli began eyeballing this sweet little indigenous boy.  After they sized each other up and down for a few minutes we urged Eli to ask his name.  The boy's name was Jonah (we think) and after another couple minutes of flirting, the boy disappeared into the pizza place and reappeared with something in his hand.  It was a plastic golf ball and he wanted Eli to follow him over to an open area next to us to play.  They began to throw the ball back and forth...laughing and having a good time neither one knowing what the other was saying.   Just a couple of boys communicating in the International language of innocent fun.  Eli was thrilled to have a friend.  Jonah disappeared and reappeared several more times with various items:  a skateboard, a vintage calculator of some sort and finally a ripped piece of paper...still unclear what that was about.  It didn't matter,  while Laura and I ate and watched, Eli and Jonah bonded.  It was a great lunch.

Jonah proved to be a nice diversion for Eli as it was a temporary ceasefire from the playground bombardment.  As soon as we got back to the street the ceasefire was over.  That kid does not forget!  We decided to leave the market for the playground vowing to return soon for another, more focused, attempt.  It was a short walk to the playground which actually had a name, Parque San Sebastian.  Eli had a great time at the playground, but was hampered a bit by his slippery shoes.  He would just drop to the ground intermittently as if he had just been hit by a sniper.  I stood to the side in some shade and watched local men play a pretty intense soccer game on a hard and dusty pitch.  We convinced Eli that we needed to leave (which took approximately 15-20 minutes and a dreamsicle flavored sucker) and waited for our rainbow on wheels to take us back to Cotacachi.  The bus was standing room only, but a sweet older woman gave up her seat so that Eli could sit for the ride.  I hope we were able to express to her our gratitude in our broken Spanish...a very kind and generous gesture in any language should be properly acknowledged.

Our journey should have ended there, but there was one more unkind twist to the day.  The electricity which controls the gates here at our compound is a bit schizophrenic.  You are rolling the dice on whether or not your automatic gate opener will work when you push the button.  There are two gates which permit entry to the compound:  the main entrance and the back gate.  There is no short cut between gates so if the back gate does not work then you have to walk another 1.25 miles around the compound to the main entrance.  When we arrived at our back gate, we got sucker punched.  Tired and hungry and sunburned, we accepted our defeat and began the long trek around to the main entrance. Eli fell a few more times for good measure during the hike and we ended up carrying him the rest of the way...the sniper was following us!  A couple of loud knocks and some shouting to our security guard on the other side of the entrance and we were home free.   Needless to say, it was a full day...another great day with wonderful details which we will not soon forget.