What Happens When Eleanor Tries to Get Her Hair Cut

After about two months of split ends, of using up almost entire bottles of conditioner just to comb through my hair and saying to myself every other day, “I really need to get a trim…” I finally decided to risk it and seek out a hairdresser.

First, I went to a woman on my street, hesitantly stopping by the door and yanking on it, only to find it locked. Embarrassed, I checked to see if the shop was actually open. It was, and she came to the door to let me in (oh Quiteños and their excessive security). I asked her how much a haircut costs, what her hours were and then, the big question, “Can you cut hair like mine?” She looked at me for a moment, her face twisting into the expression you make when you’re about to tell a lie and said, “Oh yeah, sure, they teach us how to cut all sorts of hair... shouldn't be a problem, I think.” I narrowed my eyes, thanked her, accepted her card and crossed her off my list.

Next, I waited a few days, keeping my eyes peeled for peluquerías (they are everywhere) and trying to guess who might be able to help me. There are two across the street from the bus stop where I wait for my internship everyday, so I walked over to them this morning. I went to one, but it was closed, so stopped in at the other. It was like an empty discoteca, with music pounding on speakers out the door and two women sitting and doing their nails. I asked if they had any free time and then, again, probed to see if they could cut my hair. The two women, with their straightened, damaged hair insisted, shouting over the music, that they’d have to straighten it first. I crossed that one off my list.

So I walked over a street to another peluquería and went through the same questions. This time, the man insisted that he could cut it. Relief flooded over me as I sank into the swivel chair – finally goodbye to my split ends! But then he pulled out a razor. A RAZOR. Folks, nobody can cut my hair with a razor. I hightailed it out of there, grabbing my bag, thanking him and taking off.

Feeling dejected and now paranoid of razors, but still determined, I stopped at a peluquería a few doors down. We didn’t even get as far as razors because I walked in, smiled and asked if they could please cut my hair and their eyes widened and they started ushering me out the door saying, “No, no, no, we can’t cut crazy hair here…”

Dejected and tired, I went back to the first place that’d been closed, the only place with an afroecuadorian hairdresser. He and I chatted a bit – yes, I only wanted a little off, no, you have to cut my hair wet, and yes, you must use scissors and he told me that I’d need to go somewhere else. He handed me the card of a place called “Cepillo Loco” (Crazy brush, fittingly) and gave me directions.

I walked off in search of the Crazy Brush, knowing it was my last hope and wondering what the hell is wrong with all the hairdressers in Quito. Eventually I grabbed a taxi and, on telling the driver the directions, starting having a wonderful rant-sess about the difficulties of having afro hair (he’s afro too). He dropped me off in front of Crazy Brush, wished me the best, and I walked to face my final hope.

The women at Crazy Brush listened to what I wanted and had a good laugh at my stories of the terror my hair had caused at numerous peluquerías this morning. They washed my hair, cut it and I was in and out in less than 10 minutes, easy peasy. No more split ends, no uneven cut lines, no straightened hair, no chemicals, and no razors. EXITO!

All in all, the whole endeavor only took me about 4 hours…well done, Quito.