Some people talk in language class, others speak at the hairdresser. I fall into the first category: at the beauty salon I only listen. Parrucchiere, the Italian word for hairdresser literally means ‘wig maker’ but a more accurate term would be consigliere because these people give nothing but counsel once the blow dryer is going. Some of this counsel is purely hair-related and should be thrown directly into the trash along with the foil used to give highlights. My parrucchiera is not unknown to say that washing is harmful to the hair and that if you want to conserve your style overnight, you’d best wrap your head in toilet paper. Other than that, she’s really quite good and each time tricks me into thinking that I actually have a new haircut. The illusion fades, of course, once I wash it, which may in fact be why the woman is so against the frequent use of shampoo.
At first, my characteristic quiet made her rather nervous, as she is not used to silent women sitting before her mirror. Our relationship improved when I temporarily broke my vow of silence and taught her the American expression ‘bad-hair day,’ which does not exist in Italian. This linguistic gem, which fundamentally explains her entire existence, left the lady truly convinced that I am far along the road to enlightenment.
I spend 90 euro when I go to see her, a sum that would inspire me to highway robbery if I had a car, but it’s worth every cent because unfailingly I leave her salon with advice that thrills me. A purely practical person who knows that the roots of human behavior pretty much grow straight out of the scalp, yesterday she told me ‘Women remember men who make them laugh and men remember women who make them cry.’
And then we started talking about love-or she started talking about love-because I save all my love-talk for newspaper columns and have nothing to spare for the barber’s chair. By the time my hair had turned a comforting shade of auburn, she had confirmed it for me: love in Italy is no more complicated than love in other places, unless you plan to speak about it. Take for example, the seemingly basic verb ‘piacere.’ As a noun it means ‘pleasure’ and as a verb it means ‘to like,’ which presents no real problem until you decide to conjugate it. Find me an English speaker on either side of the ocean who is not befuddled by mi piace, ti piace, mi piaci, ti piaccio and God forbid, mi piaccio. For the average English-speaking Joe, just who is busy liking whom in all these scenarios is clear to no one but the hairdresser. The problem is this: the liker depends on the pronoun not the verb, and if you can get that explanation, then kudos to you, for you are the only one who does.
In Tuscany, they take declarations a step further and use an expression that makes me believe they’re right to say that the peninsula’s most beautiful Italian can be learned only in this region. And it’s not because of the Dolce Stil Novo poets from the thirteenth century, unless they used the expression ‘tu mi garbi’ and I don’t know about it. It means you like someone or something, but the feeling it inspires is far happier than ‘like,’ and when you say it, it means you have finally found something that truly suits you. To add spice to our stew, it also moves me to know that the word ‘garbo’ actually means politeness or courtesy.
Maybe Italy’s genteel poets did use it, for I can think of no sweeter way to say ‘I like you’ than to use the phrase ‘you make me courteous.’ An announcement such as this one could make Petrarca’s Laura out of any girl.
At dinner last night, I asked Filippo what he thought. ‘Do I make you feel courteous?’ I asked, pouring my water as if it were nonchalance.
Filippo looked at me with raised eyebrows. ‘What?’ It had to be a trick question.
‘As in garbare.’
‘You’re asking me if tu mi garbi?’ The pronouns are rotten but I didn’t give in. ‘Garbo means courteous, I’ve looked it up.’
Filippo lifted his fork to his mouth and hid his smile behind it. ‘Yes, tu mi garbi. But I don’t know about the courtesy thing. Most days you make me want to strangle you.’
Right. Well, close enough.
