Big Kinga and the Lone White Hair

Nagy Kinga’s her name. Every time you say that, what you’re really saying is "Big Kinga." It makes me chuckle, because it’s true. She’s an eighth grader and she’s taller than me. And she speaks better German.

Last month, she was in a German-speaking Wettbewerb (competition) and took first place in the whole darn Heves county. This is due, of course, in no part to her conversational German teacher. But the school administration decided that to prepare her for the national competition in Budapest next month, she should practice as much as possible. With me.

So we meet a couple times a week, and we’ll keep meeting until her competition. We usually go outside, speaking German is so much easier out-of-doors in the spring sunshine. Yesterday I gave her a choice. "Kinga, du kannst wählen," I said, offering two choices. "Wir können über Slovenia sprechen, oder wir können ins Friseur gehen. Ich brauche eine Haareschnitt!"

I lost a lot of emotional attachment to my hair in Slovenia when Yerik noticed, and plucked as proof, a ghostly white hair from my scalp. I was mortified in a single moment into the apathy of old age. Just a day after a nice Croatian girl on the train had guessed that I was 17 years old, here I was, half the way toward whizzened.

A white hair! Akh! I’m young at heart! I’m a youthful adventurer! I reject stress and worry! My trademark is wild and crazy curls of gold falling from an always smiling face! I wear flip-flops and blue jeans with a sport coat! And we haven’t even mentioned yet that I nuzzle my head and those precious hairs every night onto a Sesame Street pillowcase!

Unbelieveable.

Thankfully, Kinga picked the later, and we marched off the barbershop. Just me and my 13-year-old star-pupil-turned-beauty-consultant-and-translator. Ildiko the hairdresser was excited to see me, it had been a while since I’d visited her. She likes experimenting on my blond curls, I guess, not the most common type of hair in these parts. Kinga and I flipped through the books. She taught me the word for curly -- apparently it’s welle -- but neither of us knew the German word for straight. We improvised.

Ildiko’s silent assistant washed my hair while Kinga selected the best style and pointed it out to Ildiko. She lifted her scissors and curls started to fall. Ildiko’s hair is bright orange and she kept using the word "fru-fru" when discussing my hair with Kinga, but for some reason it’s easy to trust her. Inches later, she whipped out the hair straightener and began smoothing out what was left of my bangs. When we all agreed it looked good, I handed her 5 USD and we all were happy.

Kinga and I walked to the park and sat down with ice cream cones, my treat to her for her hard work in the long process of attempting to make me beautiful. Students walked past without recognizing me, but once they did, I figure it took about ten minutes for the whole damn town to know that Tanar Jeremy got a hair cut. Ahh, life in the small town.