I’ve discovered the joy of the cepillado. For those of you who don’t know what el cepillado is, it’s the process of going to the salon and having the hairdresser blow-dry your hair to new, mind-blowing heights and then making sure it stays in place for years by spraying it with a layer of hairspray. I know that in previous entries I’ve dissed/made fun of this favorite Colombian past-time, but let me tell you how I came to love it. As you know, I went to the beauty parlor (do they still call it that?) a few days ago and got my hair cut ($3.50). I also got my eyebrows and nails done ($6). After the lady finished cutting my hair, she asked if I wanted it “cepillado.” My first instinct was to say no, but the manicurist still hadn’t finished my nails, so I skeptically consented to operation cepillado. Also, I thought maybe it would help me make sense of the strange layers and lengths going on top of my head, particularly the three-inch mini-umbrella thing on my crown. The best way I can describe this mass on the crown of my head is with the following picture:
Anyway, once blow-dried, my hair took on a shape. Maybe not the best shape, but a shape nonetheless. To be honest, it’s not so much that I look amazing with blow-dried hair. More like, when not blow-dried, my hair looks something like this:
In other news, I am getting quite fat. The Bogotá weight loss miracle is wearing-off. A shame. But I also blame men. Firstly, my brother for his ability to eat mass quantities and not gain weight. In Ecuador, I allowed myself to believe I could do the same. Seven pounds later, I was forced to face reality. Once one begins getting fat, it often leads to resignation. I joined a gym, but I never went. (The walk alone was 10 blocks!) I made mass quantities of salad and ate it once. Then I met a guy who really likes Chinese food, Doritos and beer. So now you see why I blame it all on men. A lot of the time, people tell you the fat thing is in your head. That maybe you feel like you’ve gained weight, but in reality, you’re just imagining it. Well, I’m not imagining it. How do I know this? Because the thought of putting on jeans fills me with dread because that’s how tight they are. So when I’m inside, I’ve been wearing the same loose-fitting dress and reluctantly squeeze into my jeans when I have no choice but to go out. In search of food, naturally. And as soon as I get home, off come the jeans and on comes the dress. Oh well. I will be in Panama on Thursday. Nothing but ceviche and salads and lots of walking…
And speaking of Panama, I have complimentary travel writer stays at five-star resorts and no one to accompany me. So very, very, very, very, very sad.
I have now finished the shallowest blog entry ever.