What you have to understand about Barcelona is that the kids dress absolutely nothing like the hyper-sleek, high-design-oriented Northern European peoples of France, Denmark, etc. Instead, the local style around town seems to be half street punk, half goth, 100% cooky. In fact, I'm guessing Barcelona teens' collective favorite band would be either My Chemical Romance or Evanescence.
Just check this fashion still from Barcelona's fave store, Desigual:
Not exactly a J.Crew-loving society, shall we say.
Just check this fashion still from Barcelona's fave store, Desigual:
Not exactly a J.Crew-loving society, shall we say.
Because I'm olive-skinned + have large cooky glasses + regularly sport a tiny pink headband, I somehow blend in here a million times more than I would have ever expected. Still, there is one aspect of my being that suggests to the natives around me that, though I may be from Galicia or el Pais Vasco, I am most definitely NOT from Barcelona: My hair. And also the fact that I wash it. And brush it.
It's horrifying, but also true—the most common intersex hairstyle right now is a mullet in which the "party in the back" consists of 2-10 giant dreadlocks, all at least 1-2 feet longer than the rest of their hair.
Not even kidding, this picture was the first result when I googled "Barcelona hairstyle":
On the street, at least ten times a day, you encounter a very very nice-looking person... only to walk past them and see what looks like a giant rotting squid stuck to the back of their heads. Eughhhhhhhhhh
When I was last in Spain, mullets were big. They love mullets, I get it. But, dread mullets? And dreadlock rattails?
I don't know, it's the one aspect of street culture that truly makes me feel like a worse-case-scenario American elitist. But I can't help it...
I can only imagine dating a dude/lady here. It's like a nightmare: whenever you might lose yourself in the moment and put your hands in their hair, you put yourself at risk of making direct contact with a pack of giant dreads, probably smelly as all hell thanks to the accumulated 4-5 years worth of oils and stank from daily jamon serrano and tuna consumption. Shiver.
I can only imagine dating a dude/lady here. It's like a nightmare: whenever you might lose yourself in the moment and put your hands in their hair, you put yourself at risk of making direct contact with a pack of giant dreads, probably smelly as all hell thanks to the accumulated 4-5 years worth of oils and stank from daily jamon serrano and tuna consumption. Shiver.
Oh, Catalonian youth. Put down the skateboard, and hand me the scissors.
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