I ran my fingers through my hair.
It had grown a lot since I had it cut back in January.
And it felt gross. Fried.
“Arlene, this is disgusting,” I moaned, tugging at my sun-damaged locks. “I need to fix this or it will drive me nuts.”
Fortunately, Arlene’s pre-travel life included being a stylist.
We sat on a picnic bench in Kadir’s as I combed my overly-dry hair with my fingers, scowling at its quick descent into unhealthy.
“I give you good price,” she said, imitating the shop owners trying to hawk their goods. “Ten lire.”
The next day, my last day in Olympos, I got my hair cut.
On the porch of a tree house.
My hair, which was spoiled rotten in my previous life, was wet around my shoulders as Arlene pulled out her stylist tools she brought on the road with her — a smock, scissors and a squirt bottle.
In the heat of the afternoon sun, she chopped and layered and spritzed my hair as passersby stopped, stared and questioned us in various languages as to what we were doing, then smiling and nodding once they figured it out.
“Well, we don’t have a hair dryer, so your hair has to dry before I can finish the cut,” she said, pulling off my black smock. “Let’s go take photos.”
The two of us walked around Kadir’s, snapping images of the tree huts, the towering rock faces behind the site and people. Then, we had lunch at the pizza hut.
“OK,” she said. “We can go and finish your hair.”
I produced a tiny flat iron — one I have only used on rare occasions since I started traveling, but kept it just in case.
She ran it through my hair quickly and then we were back outside on the porch and she provided the finishing touches to my hair.
“Finished,” she announced.
I got up, ran my fingers through it and was delighted. It no longer felt like a broom.
I looked in the mirror.
This is the best my hair has looked since I started traveling.
There were no fancy products in my hair. There was no blow-out and styling done. But, it was perfect for where I was.