I got a haircut this weekend. It was my first big venture into the Spanish-speaking world all by myself. I was armed with Google Translate and my request: “Quiero un corte de pelo.” I made it through the initial exchange pretty well. I asked if they had time, the woman at the front desk said “thirty minutes” (in Spanish, duh), and I went and sat down. Things didn’t fall apart until I was in the washing chair.

When in a foreign country with a foreign language, I rely on seeing someone speaking to me to determine that they are, in fact, speaking to me. So, I didn’t realize that the hair washing man was asking me a question, because he was standing behind me, and I couldn’t see him. There I was, leaning back with my eyes closed, enjoying my head massage, and he’s wondering why I’m unresponsive. Did I die? Am I deaf? Am I narcoleptic?

I opened my eyes when he stopped massaging my head, because he went to get reinforcement from the front desk woman.

I thought she said something about conditioner, so I said, “Conditioner? Sure.” She had a nice chuckle over “sure” (it’s a very American word) and went back to the desk while the hair washing man attended to my head.

Now, I don’t know if they don’t usually condition someone’s hair or if I, unknowingly, got some special conditioning treatment, but they put some stuff on my head and left me for 10 minutes staring at the ceiling. After, what felt likes ages, I got rinsed.

“Para tu casa,” the hair washing man said as he handed me the little, green, half-empty bottle of conditioner. I think I was supposed to be excited about that.

The hair washing man bid me farewell and lead me to a hair cutting chair. I pulled up my Pinterest example photos on my phone and waited for my hairdresser. When she appeared, she was tiny and dressed head-to-toe in white. Her white tennis shoes had four-inch soles. He white jeans where so tight I could tell that she, almost definitely, wasn’t wearing any underwear. Her white shirt was, basically, a crop top. For a brief second I worried that they had misunderstood my request and had sat me at the Brazilian waxing station.

She bounced over to me, looked at the photo on my phone, and asked me a question in Spanish that I didn’t understand. I said a word in English to see if she spoke it, and her eyes got big and a little panicky. She walked over to the poor front desk woman. There was a brief flurry of conversation between my Brazilian hairdresser, my hair washing man, and the front desk woman. Next thing I knew, they grabbed a customer out of her washing chair and brought her over to me in her plastic poncho. She kindly translated for me, went back to her chair, and my Brazilian picked up the razor.

No, I’m just kidding. No razors were involved.

In the end, I got my hair cut, roughly in the style I was expecting, paid $20 more than I was expecting, and left with my little, half-empty bottle of green conditioner.

Before and after pic of Sam's haircut in Buenos Aires


Have a mentioned I’m the Potluck Master? I’m the Potluck Master. Yes, I gave myself that name. But, you guys, I’m the only one with a proper kitchen, so I bring the best stuff to potluck every week! It’s really unfair of me to compare myself to the other kitchen-disadvantaged hackers, but I’m going to do it anyway, and I declare myself the Potluck Master.

stuffed peppers

Big update: I finally met a local who is going to let me cook with her! So, that’s coming up in the next couple of weeks.


I’m really glad that I have another month here, because I feel like I needed this first month to get settled and adjusted. Now that I’m kinda used to my coworking space and kinda used to my apartment and kinda used to my neighborhood, I can focus on my other goals of meeting local designers and local foodies.

Also, I found a place near my apartment that has legit postcards! So, if you’re one of my $5/mo Patreon supporters, they’re going in the mail this week!

I want your questions about Buenos Aires/Argentina, so comment below.

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