One of my many genius ideas before we left for Portugal was this: I’ll grow my hair long. You know, Portuguese-style — beachy, elegant, that “I just stepped out of a vineyard” look. I imagined throwing it around dramatically like a Victoria’s Secret model caught in a Lisbon breeze. It was going to be part of my new Mediterranean identity.
Spoiler alert: I lasted less than two months.
You see, what I hadn’t accounted for was humidity. And soft water. Which, together, transform your hair into something resembling a damp bird’s nest. Even after unloading an entire can of industrial-strength hairspray, my carefully blow-dried hair collapsed into frizz faster than you can say “bom dia.” I’d step outside and return 30 minutes later looking like a mildly electrocuted duck. Stylish? Not quite.
Clearly, it was time for a haircut.
How I Picked My Salon (and Why I Shouldn’t Have)
After my first choice salon — the one with stunning Instagram photos and glowing expat recommendations — turned out to be booked for the next three weeks, I did what any desperate woman would do. I panicked and picked another salon with over 100 good reviews on Google. That seemed promising. Statistically safe, right?
Oh, Kasia. So naïve.
The moment I stepped in, I knew this wasn’t going to be your usual “let’s sip a cappuccino while discussing layers” experience. The salon was tiny but bursting at the seams — like someone had booked in all of Lisbon at once. Haircuts, manicures, a full buffet-style lunch in progress, and what I think was a cousin of an employee camped in the corner with shopping bags and a disapproving stare. It felt less like a salon and more like a train station with shampoo.
I said hello and was told to sit. Which I did. Expecting some chit-chat — you know, the usual “Where are you from? What are we doing today?” Instead, my stylist looked at me blankly, not a word of English in sight, and absolutely no interest in playing hair therapist.
So I did what all foreigners in a language-barrier panic do: I showed him a photo. A dark blonde bob — nothing wild, not avant-garde. A haircut you could do in your sleep.
Communication Breakdown (With Bonus Dehydration)
He nodded silently. No problem. I waited. And waited. It was hot. No one offered me water — which, as any salon veteran knows, is a red flag. Eventually, I caved and asked for it myself, but only after I’d lost half a litre of fluids to panic sweating.
Then came the preparation of the hair dye, which took an unreasonably long time. At one point, I actually considered walking out. But I stayed. Because hope dies last.
The dye finally went on — still no words exchanged — and off he went. Not to check his messages, but to work on three other clients. At once. I kid you not, he was darting between chairs like a caffeinated octopus. I counted: he blow-dried someone, snipped someone else’s fringe, shouted something into the back room (possibly about more lunch?), and then disappeared again.
When it was finally time to rinse, he tossed me to a lady who, I assume, was normally on broom duty. Her job, I assume, was not washing hair, because she was mid-conversation with her friend about a wedding or a scandal or both. She waved at me vaguely, then continued chatting while I sat there wondering if my scalp would survive.
Hair in My Handbag & Mild Identity Loss
To top it off, the stylist gave my chair to another man — while I was still processing bleach fumes — and he sat there confidently, next to my handbag and phone, like it was his own salon throne. His freshly-cut hair ended up all over my belongings. Nothing like carrying someone else’s DNA home in your tote bag.
A woman next to me was complaining loudly that her hair looked “exactly the same” as when she walked in — she had been there for over an hour. Another poor foreigner had a look on her face like she was about to be sentenced to a haircut she didn’t choose. Honestly? She might have been.
And me? Well… I left with hair. Just not the hair I asked for. The colour was brown-ish, with random auburn highlights that I definitely hadn’t ordered. It didn’t resemble the photo at all. But thanks to my new Portuguese tan, I didn’t look completely tragic. So… small victories?
Lessons Learned (and What Not to Do)
This was a Brazilian salon, which maybe explains some of the cultural differences. Perhaps they’re used to a different type of hair, or maybe their usual clientele enjoys a livelier, multi-tasking vibe. But as a Polish woman hoping for calm, clean, and some form of verbal reassurance, I walked out with slightly broken spirits and auburn hair.
So here’s my advice to fellow expats and relocation rookies: don’t book the first salon with 100 reviews just because you’re desperate. And definitely don’t expect anyone to offer you water unless you ask — twice.
The Upside? Great Blog Material.
One day I will find the right hairdresser in Portugal — a magical place with water, chairs free of strangers, and someone who knows what “dark blonde” actually means. When I do, I promise I’ll write a proper recommendation here, so no one else has to sit next to someone’s leftover lunch while slowly losing their hairstyle and their will to live.
Relocation is all about trial and error. Sometimes it’s house hunting, sometimes it’s paperwork… and sometimes, it’s hair dye gone rogue.
Até já — and bring your own bottle of water ;)
Kasia
👉 Read it here 👀 If you’re craving more of our glamorous misadventures in Portugal, don’t miss the tale of the exploding shower glass — because nothing says “luxury condo” like airborne shards.
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