When in doubt..."do"

Didier was at a meeting all day yesterday. I stayed home, away from temptation #1 (blogging), so I could get more work done. I had planned to crash the meeting in the afternoon to hear Didier's first presentation, which was supposed to be at around 3:30. There was a cocktail afterwards, well, after his second presentation (the one that regular folks like myself could attend), so I dressed up a bit. I arrived at the hotel where the meeting was held just in time to sneak into the meeting room, but then I chickened out.

Yes, chickened out.

It was a small meeting and when I peeked into the room several people turned around to look who was coming in, so I quickly closed the door. Then Jef, a friend, came out to talk a phone call, and I asked him if he thought it was ok to go in. He said "of course" but he was smirking, plus, I know Jef's standards for "ok" (his quite fearless of the ridicule) and so thought twice and stayed outside.

Cold feet twice within 10 minutes. I usually don't care and I don't know what I was up to yesterday. I felt very self-conscious and out of place. I thought I had dressed inadequately, and worried I would disrupt the meeting and then Didier would get mad because I had walked in right before his turn. You name the fear, I felt it. I freaked out.

So, I was stuck in the hotel with two hours to kill, no laptop (I feel so naked without my laptop!!), no chance of walking around the neighborhood (a notorious hot spot for petty crime), and nothing to read.

I went down to get a coffee and managed to kill about 15 minutes sipping my tiny 5 bucks expresso and writing about the incident on my pocket notebook. I didn't want to pay for another overpriced coffee. I was starting to get bored out of my mind and tired of feeling silly for not having walked into the meeting. I started wandering around the hotel (very, very slowly, to make the most out of the place). It was mid-afternoon so not many people were in the lobby. I wondered if the hotel had a hair salon.

I'm pretty sure that all hotels that receive a fair number of business and official visitors have hair salons. It may be a universal requirement to get a star or something. I decided to check. The shop area at the Memling isn't very large. There's a pharmacy, a flower shop, a cellphone store, Air France's in-town desk, and a souvenir shop.

I passed by all these shops wondering if the Memling was going to be the first unfortunate exception to the hotel and salon rule, but Memling delivered. A small sign announcing "hair salon such and such, upstairs", and the best news of the day: "ouvert" saved the day.

I spent the next hour and a half getting my hair washed and dried, and observing the fascinating world of Congolese Hair Science. I was the only mundele there. Five other women were getting five different treatments/cuts/extensions done. Next to me, a young stylist was weaving wavy human hair to a lady's tresses (the package read "100% human hair" and I immediately thought of Tess Monaghan of Laura Lippman's novels). The stylist was dressed in full Congolese hip hop attire including the mandatory diamond stud on one ear and the baseball cap. He did his art while singing along the radio and stopping from time to time to do some moves when a particularly popular Congolese song was playing.

Another stylist was busy reading the apparently very complicated instructions for the application of a product another client brought in a silver tube. After consulting with his colleagues he proceeded to apply the cream only to the ends of a few strands of hair of his client.

Next to the works of engineering the stylists were doing, my own straight brushing must have seemed very boring. Still, the guy dedicated a lot of time to my hair. He even tried three or four times (unsuccessfully) to keep my bangs in a sort of wave and laughed when the "wave" collapsed under his very eyes.

By the time I was done it was almost 5:30. Everybody was friendly and I think a bit surprised to see a mundele in a hair salon that obviously specializes in African hairdos. Time flew. By the time I paid for my $15 do I was in a great mood, complimenting stylists on their skills, women on their new hair looks, and the cashier on the good service. I was complimented back, invited to return soon, told I was a very friendly mundele. I left the place in a true hair high.

I went back to the floor where the meeting was taking place in time to steal some spicy olives and two mini-sandwiches before the important guys arrived. The rest of the evening went very well. Didier's main presentation went great, and the cocktail included some mini-samosas that my friend Sonia and I devoured while hiding under a strategically located potted palm tree.

Yesterday I confirmed the transcultural power of the blow drier.

Below: Didier, Ale, Jef (the picture doesn't do justice to George's work, btw.)