Another Cypriot adventure


I hate getting my hair cut in Cyprus.

In fact, I’ve always hated getting my hair cut. But here, you have the added impression that you are being judged for being ‘different’ (heavy English accent/terrible Greek dialect). I also have massive, unruly hair so it’s always a lengthy task drying the stuff – it’s thick, it’s long and there’s tonnes of it.

Hair salons are not the nicest of places as it is (a predominantly female working environment servicing a predominantly female clientele – need I say more?) but, thanks to an excellent recommendation by a friend, I’ve discovered a pretty decent hair salon. And it’s very reasonable too.

The stylist that cuts my hair, Constantinos, speaks effortlessly fluent English, and due to the fact that he watches plenty of English sitcoms and films, his vocabulary is extremely vast. Another value that I appreciate in him is that he genuinely listens to your every request, which I believe is such an important quality in any hairdresser (and one that is frequently overlooked in many salons I’ve encountered, both in Cyprus and overseas).

Cue wedding hair…

My regular salon wasn’t willing to open up on Boxing Day, but fortunately we were able to find someone who was. Reluctant to speak a word of English (despite the fact that he seemed to understand virtually everything I said), I struggled to communicate with him in my broken Greek, as we tried to establish a style that would suit me on my big day. Not so easy. As with many encounters similar to this one, I eventually surrendered and let him get away with what he believed was perfectly suited to my features and my dress. Unfortunately this meant caking my hair in hair spray, which resulted in a very flat, shiny head which gave the impression that my hairline was receding.

Leaving disappointed, we gave him another try. This time round and under the watchful eye of my vigilant aunty, he eventually managed to pull together something we all agreed was far better than the previous look. It combined everything I’d asked for and made me look more far graceful and sophisticated than I had beforehand.

Nevertheless (and possibly due to said auntie’s absence in the salon), he didn’t show an ounce of enthusiasm towards me or my family on the big day. Refusing to take his sunglasses off or even talk to me, he hurriedly pushed and pulled at my hair until he had produced what he believed to be a duplicate of our second practise session.

Not so at all, and by the time we reached the church, the curls had already begun to drop out.

Lesson learnt? Always entrust in someone who speaks your own language!

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