El Pelu

Although the astonishing number of mullets--male and female--might lead the casual observer to conclude otherwise, Spain is a country in which it is practically impossible to get a bad haircut if you don't want one.

I was reminded of this fact a couple of weeks ago when I was in desperate need of color and a trim, but found myself in Asturias. I had planned to drive to Luarca, where there is a salon I had been to a couple of times before, but when I got to the car that morning, the front right tire was flat. I managed to get it to the nearest taller, where the mechanic patched the tire for 15 euros, but by that time, most of the morning was gone, and I had family coming to visit, and a house to clean. So I took a chance and went to the peluqueria in Ovinana, located next to the tiny, malodorous grocery store that we never go to except to buy bread.

It wasn't promising. For one thing, no one was there when I walked in, though the television was blasting a Spanish game show. For another, when the stylist--and I use that word advisedly--came out, I recognized her immediately as the grocer's wife. I knew this because I had previously encountered her behind the cash register, ringing up loaves of bread.

No cape, just a piece of plastic wrapped around my neck. No Vaseline to keep the haircolor from staining my forehead. Magazines all several months out of date. And a tv kept permanently on "blast," in apparent competition for auditory dominance with the stylist/grocer's wife, who, it turns out, has a very loud voice.

But my hair came out looking great. And best of all, it cost exactly the same as the tire patch.