What Happened in Tbilisi

You know how when you show up in a new place, with no friends, no job, no place to stay, you have the chance to reinvent yourself entirely? No one knows anything about you – this is your opportunity to be somebody else. Someone more put together, someone glammier, someone more intelligent, more creative, more interesting, than you’ve ever been before?

Well, that’s not what happened to me in Tbilisi.

But before we talk about what did happen, I’d like to talk about why I came to Georgian in the first place and about my shower here.

People ask me all the time why I decided to move to Tbilisi (just like they used to ask me why I moved to Ukraine) and I always say it was for the food. Which is true, of course, because this country does cheesy bread six different ways, but it’s not the whole story. I moved to Georgia simply because there were few other places I could go. Living in Kyiv had become stressful and anxiety-inducing, and — while I adored it — I needed a break. I wanted to live somewhere close to Eastern Europe, where it was affordable and the people wouldn’t mind letting me stay for more than 90 days.

That really narrows the list down.

And so I moved to Georgia, with no friends, no apartment, and no job. In retrospect, I kind of wonder how my family allowed it, except that they probably knew they couldn’t stop me. It was, perhaps, one of my more foolhardy plans. But I can’t deny that it worked out pretty well. Within a few weeks of touching down, I had everything I needed – a cool roommate and an apartment, a fun group of local artists to hang out with, and a library card.

Oh, but my shower. What a disappointment.

First of all, the shower room, because of some weird ventilation in the apartment building, often smells like someone’s kitchen. This would be ok, I guess, if they made things like brownies or mac and cheese, but I swear one day they were frying up fish at 9am. It’s like a very incongruent Smell-O-Vision to start your day.

Secondly, the light bulbs tend to burn out quickly. Not a big deal, if you live in a place where you understand how to buy the right light bulbs. Or if your landlord didn’t insist on changing them himself – my roommate thinks he doesn’t want us to mess up any of the wiring. To be fair, there definitely is something amiss with the wiring, and I’d rather not get electrocuted anyway, so we can relegate the light bulb changing duties to him. But there’s often quite a delay between burn out and replacement, which means we have to shower in the mood lighting of an open door.

But the real problem, and where the drama of this story starts, is that our hot water is jacked up. All hot water flows through the heater in our kitchen. It requires a certain amount of water pressure to kick on, which means you have to have the tap all the way to the hot side for it to work. Turn it a little towards cold and the heater shuts down. So you have to turn on the water, skip over the kitchen to adjust the temperature to your liking, and then just jump in and commit to that temperature for your entire shower.

While completely wasteful, this bizarre roundabout engineering usually works – but there has been the rare, sorrowful occasion when I’m already in the shower and the water pressure fails.

So there I was one day, conditioner still fully worked into my hair, when the water went ice cold, cold enough that even my hot rage at the shower’s betrayal couldn’t counteract it. Torn between the desire not to have a scalp full of soap and to get out of there before I lost feeling in my toes, I flipped my head, quickly half-rinsed the conditioner out of my hair, and cursed while turning off the shower (though the bastard appliance knew my threats to never return held no weight).

I supremely hate cold showers, and I hate even more when something simple (like hot water) doesn’t work. For anyone who thinks life abroad is glamorous, I have sad home appliance stories to keep you in suspended in tedium for days.

But, it turns out, a cold rinse is amazing for curly hair. Those babes bounced up like Shirley Temple. As I got ready for work, I kept waiting for them to go wonky, for one side to flatten out, the back to frizz up, one front curl to kink out to the side. But they stayed corkscrew perfect. Coulda opened a bottle of wine with one of those locks.

And that’s when I decided, I was walking out the door like that.

I don’t know what it is about hair, but it’s the cause of outrage, jealousy, and pride all over the world. Men get anxious when they lose it, and women desperately try to hide their age from showing in it. Some cultures find it scandalous, offensive to show in public. Having a bad hair day can throw a shadow over your whole day. It’s tied so closely to our identities – people in Georgia probably know I’m not a local just by looking at my hair.

For me, my hair has been a constant source of insecurity in my life. I remember one time in Ukraine, a friend asked me why I didn’t wear my hair down.

“But it is down,” I said. “I just pin it back the front so it stays out of my face.”

That, my friends was a lie. I do not pin back my hair to keep it out of my face. I pin it back because that’s the only way of controlling my Medusa curls. If I didn’t pin them back, they might come right at you.

I’ve fought with my hair for most of my life, trying to make it look presentable. I’ve worn it down and free before, but back when it was shoulder-length and I had the time to individually twirl each individual curl. With it halfway down my back now, that’s just too much of my life wasted. It never does the same thing twice, it blows up like a puffer fish whenever there’s a little bit of humidity, and it lacks any shine or softness. Especially in Ukraine, where every girl’s hair is ready to be artfully flipped over her shoulder, my hair felt like steel wool.

But in Tbilisi, everything is more relaxed — not only compared to Ukraine, but basically anywhere else I’ve been in the world. Whether it’s about making plans, following so-called ‘laws,’ or living up to fashion standards, Georgians are just more laid-back. I once saw a girl nonchalantly sporting a unicorn onesie while waiting for the metro. Just like a typical Tuesday. No one seemed to notice.

One of my Georgian friends, whenever I disagree with him, always says, “What’s the problem?” It’s totally maddening because he usually ends up getting what he wants. These days, I rarely can figure out what is the problem.

Maybe it seems an insignificant thing to others, but no matter what the source of anxiety, there is relief in deciding it’s not a problem anymore. And here I was in Tbilisi, rocking loose curls in public — and actually happy about it — for the first time in years. Sure, I was a giant “let your hair down” walking cliché, but one that turned out to be so on-point I didn’t even care.

And that’s what happened in Tbilisi. I didn’t become someone else. I didn’t reinvent my personality to be the person I always wanted to be or felt I should be. Coming here without anyone, no friends, no partner, no boss, I had no one who had any expectations of me, any demands on my being, and I relaxed. I pursued what I wanted freely, I declined opportunities without regret. I spoke my mind without feeling apologetic. I took a cold shower and rocked the results.

I became uncompromisingly myself.

I’ve stopped pinning my hair back. Even on days when the humidity frizzes it out or it goes limp on one side, I just let it go. It’s far from perfect, as is life in Tbilisi, but perfect isn’t needed anymore. I’ve finally made some peace with my unpredictable moppy mess.

And I blame/credit Georgia.

My time in Tbilisi is coming to an end, unfortunately, but for the next month I’m going to be traveling around the rest of Georgia. I’m planning on going to some spectacular places – Batumi to chill out at Black Sea, Kakheti to enjoy Georgia’s wine region, Svaneti for a four-day hiking trip. To be honest, I don’t think I’ll be blogging much about these travels, so if you want to get a glimpse of this amazing country, it’s best to follow me on Instagram and check out my stories.