akrasia
“Though her soul requires seeing, the culture around her requires sightlessness.”
Dear Simone,
I am sitting at the table facing the fog with a caramel coffee and a little bit of cashew milk warmed. I woke up to the sensation of someone being in my space with me. I had my earplugs in because the favelas were in full swing last night. I woke up to the light and couldn't hear anything, although I felt I was not alone. It is very disconcerting to live alone and feel as if you have company when you have not invited anyone over.
I sat up in bed with the shock of it. My heart had dropped down to my toes, so as I swung my feet to the floor, I could feel its pulse, especially lower. I took the plugs from my ears and set them in the little bag at the dresser. No matter the circumstances, I am a creature of habit, and I tied my silk kimono to my waist. I should have put my glasses on though I left them in the bathroom, so I wandered out of the bedroom a bit blind and curious as to who could be visiting at such an early hour.
I guessed it to be around five in the morning.
My first instinct before I opened the creaky wooden door was that I'd left the balcony doors open and a monkey was in the kitchen. I was worried about my technology; I left my computer and phone in the kitchen and while they would be no use to a monkey, they would be easily damaged. I don't care about the food- the animals can take what they want at the expense of my carelessness.
I've been settling with the sandalwood and am down to my final stick from the package I purchased in Berlin. I am not a reckless person and don't leave the doors open. I have my nightly checks that are habitual as my morning routine. Each evening, I sweep the floors, turn off the lights, check the doors and windows, and select a wand of incense to scent my room as I sleep.
I was a bit scattered when I arrived home yesterday evening, though not so much that I neglected my routine. I had a full day- I left the apartment in the later afternoon when the sun was high. I walked down the long and windy road toward town and Miranda, the owner of Mo Cafe & Vintage, pulled up beside me. Without saying anything, I got in the car.
She doesn't speak English well, and I have three words in Portuguese, so our conversations are mostly non-verbal.
I joined her to Botofogo where she was to do some shopping.
On the way, her car began to growl at one point and we slowed to a crawl. She pressed the gas harder than I would have if my car was making such a calamity, and as the vehicle dragged on the cement, there was a terrific squeal.
I looked in the rearview mirror as a large hunk of metal spit off the end of the car and we sped up and lurched forward- nearly hitting the person in front of us!
I waved my hands and told her to stop- frantically pointing in the mirror.
"A piece of the car came off!" I said, "We've left something large on the road."
It was all taxis behind us with their green lights on, and I watched too swerve out of the way to avoid the long, metal pipe that had come off her car.
"No- it is tree. You know tree? It is tree."
"Stop! Look in the mirror- it was a metal piece from your car; you need that piece. Stop"
"No. Tree branch, like on tree? You know this?"
We went back and forth like this for several minutes until I realized how far we'd moved and how distant the piece was now behind us. The car moved fine, and I reasoned perhaps she'd driven over the pipe and it got stuck on something. It was definitely not a tree branch.
She was driving and did not understand me. I cannot access wifi without a CPF number- the tax person registry number required to set up a sim card- so I could not do any translation. So I left it.
We arrived at the mall and went in opposite directions. We hugged, kissed, and said, Chow. It's one of the only words I know.
I walked for a bit around Bogafoto before hopping into a cab for Leblon- this is my preferred area. It reminds me of Barcelona, save for the police on every other corner.
In Leblon, I went to the shopping mall to meet Flaviana for a hair appointment. The salon is in the mall and I was seated with an espresso and two small shortbread cookies while I waited. Flaviana is Portuguese and speaks a little English. She has red hair and light brown eyes, and dresses fantastically in little heeled shoes and bright eyeliner.
During my treatment, I discovered that she was in her 40's, married, no kids, and worked six days a week, mostly as an esthetician. I was in the salon for four hours and had my hair deep-conditioned and styled. I also received a scalp massage, which is one of my favorite ways to receive. I was offered prosecco, which I accepted, and more cookies, which I declined.
I love having my hair brushed and played with.
Flaviana is born in July and therefore a Cancer. Her movements are slow and considered. She is very warm and thorough. She felt like a water sign; she said hello to everyone and spoke softly. I felt grounded and safe with her, even though I could not understand anything going on around me.
It is an odd experience to be styled when you cannot speak the same language. Flaviana and I used Google Translate, though I know from experiences with my Moroccan friends that this service is not always correct.
Many times, what I wrote to Flaviana did not make sense once in Portuguese. She'd wrinkle her nose and smile at me in the mirror as she shook her head. I tried explaining through gestures, but I eventually gave in to the experience.
I asked for blond highlights and prayed it would be soft, not brassy. She took the aluminum foils and brush and painted the strands purple with a mixture from a small black bowl. I am reading Journey by Moonlight by Antel Szeb, and I fully disappeared into my book as she worked.
I surfaced at the odd moment and peered out from the layers of foils stacked neatly on top of the other. Flaviana was buried in the dye and did not bother me. I felt a bit dizzy from reading at one point and desired to stand up. The manicurist walked by and offered me more prosecco, and I realized the nausea was more likely cause of the drink and the scent of bleach. I declined and asked for water.
During the treatment, Flaviana left me several times to cut other clients' hair. At those moments, I set aside the novel and took the moment to people-watch.
There were ever so many fascinating characters in the salon on a Friday night- and none of them were clients! There were people in the salon getting their hair washed, cut, dried and dyed. Upstairs of the salon is where the estheticians have their chairs to do makeup and nails. It was very busy, though the ones who caught my eye were those who worked with Flaviana and were not booked.
The staff at the salon each have to wear black, it would seem, and each had adorned themselves to suit their signature style.
One man wore all black leopard print from his ball cap to his shoes. His nails were painted white and his lips a deep purple.
Another man had blown out his hair in the tallest pompadour I'd seen! He was short, and the hairstyle added three inches. He wore pointy shoes with large copper buckles. His jawline was exquisite. He looked Scandanavian with his glacier-blue eyes. He looked at me for an hour without actually looking at me.
A half-Portuguese and half-Japanese man wore a long white blouse over his black attire. He wore high-top converse shoes and did not say a word the entire duration of my visit. He was the busiest and moved through five female clients while I had my hair bleached. He simply washed each one of them, spending a very long time soaping and massaging each of their scalps before a quick blow dry and seeing them out the door!
The last man of interest was about my height, with very dark eyes and neck tattoos. He had dark roots though his hair was platinum. He stripped from the black uniform when he was off and put on a printed shirt of pink and green. I watched him spray something on his chest and line his eyes with navy glitter. A longboard completed his outfit and when he walked out, I saw he was in sandals with toenails painted the same shade as his eye shadow.
The women were as attractively bedecked with matching purses and sunglasses, even though it was evening. One tall goddess with short cropped jet-black hair wore a white blouse, white bell bottoms, and white heels. She wrapped a gold belt around her wide waist and painted her nails a bright orange to match her lipstick.
Another girl in all black had chosen fuchsia glasses to add sparkle, curling her long blond hair in tight ringlets that fell to her waist.
Three manicurists wore black velvet coats that fell to their shins.
The woman at the front desk had doused her chest and cheeks with bronze.
I simply adore being part of a scene. Though it was a small hair salon in a shopping mall, I felt as if we were in a night club before the DJ set was to start, each of us sipping a beverage and sampling the small brownies wrapped in cellophane left over from a fashion show put on by Kerastase.
I hugged Flaviana and kissed her on both cheeks when I was complete- my hair was fresh and fabulous and I refused a cut. I want it to grow down to my waist before I chop it off.
I was punted out of three taxis before one agreed to take me home. Where I stay is out of the way and, without cash, most drivers refuse the fare. The man who did agree was young and wore a watch the size of my fist. He kept telling me the exact minutes until we were to arrive. Ten minutes, six minutes, three minutes. One minute.
Upon arrival, the card machine wouldn't work. Fifteen minutes.
When I entered my apartment, I called Clara and Abderrahmane and left them each a voice memo. I put away the groceries (I stopped at Zona Sul outside the mall) and ate an apple with a scoop of Tahini. I purchased tuna, a spicy sauce, beets, rice, coffee, tea, cashew milk, a dark chocolate bar, red grapes, four apples, and the Tahini.
Now, I am writing you about my day yesterday and that bug has stopped buzzing in the bin.
Did I tell you- the sound that woke me was not a person in my living space? It was a large winged bug that had flown into the metal bucket that contains the umbrellas in the corner. Its buzzing caused the bin to vibrate and make a racket. I don't think the bug could figure out how to fly out, and I couldn't be bothered to help it.
You cannot show people the way; they must find their own path.
Photo source.
