The highlight of my visit to Italy was somewhere totally unexpected

I’ve needed a haircut for months, but as usual, I’ve been putting it off. I don’t love going to the hairdresser at the best of times, but I’m even more hesitant now that I’m travelling. I’ve had too many terrible overseas hair experiences not to be scarred. Between language challenges, “innovative” local trends, and hairdressers simply going rogue, I’m wary.

I still remember the “new look” I received when I was a teenager in Switzerland. If you’ve seen the haircut episode from the UK TV series Fleabag, you’ll know why I hid in my bedroom and wept for days.

Credit: Jamie Brown

I’m not the only one with an overseas hairdresser phobia. My friends Susannah and Clarissa decided to get haircuts at a world-famous salon in LA, trusting they’d be in safe hands. They were wrong. Both emerged in shock, their long, perfectly groomed hair just a memory. “I looked like a cassowary and Clarissa like she’d just been released from a gulag,” Susannah tells me, still outraged years later.

Another friend, Sandy, recounts an alarming experience in Hong Kong. When she tried to explain to the hairdresser what she wanted, he stopped her in her tracks. He was having none of it. “I make you look not so old and not so fat,” he proclaimed sternly.

To be fair, she didn’t think that was such a bad offer. She went on to visit him for years.

The parrucchiere in the Roman suburb where I’m staying looks unpretentious and friendly. The sign tells me it’s owned by Roberta and her daughter Irene, while Lorenzo takes care of the male customers. When I drop in to ask about an appointment, Irene immediately slows her rapid-fire Italian to a pace I can understand. It’s a good sign.

Fresh coffee and “la gioia”… the haircut is just a bonus.Credit: Getty Images

When I arrive the next morning, I take a seat and Roberta pats my shoulder, asking me with concern if I’m warm enough. Before I have a chance to respond, she brings a warm towel and drapes it over my shoulders. A few minutes later she offers coffee, and the aroma of freshly ground beans fills the salon.

It’s a busy Friday morning. There is a constant stream of conversation, espresso, biscotti and laughter. The door to the street is open, and I can hear many a friendly “ciao” or “buongiorno” from locals passing by. When Irene’s little boy drops in with his dad, everybody stops what they’re doing to chat to him.

Half an hour after my arrival, my partner Simon, who also made a booking, comes in. When they discover we’re together, it kicks off another round of excited conversation. I watch everything through the mirror with fascination.

After my hair is washed by an assistant, Irene takes over. I show her photos of what I want – a trim, maybe a few layers? She nods and begins. For once, I’m not consumed by dread. She carefully cuts my hair, then blow-dries it into exactly the style I hoped for. Meanwhile, Simon is getting a classic Roman haircut, and Lorenzo keeps stepping back from his work to assess it from different angles, like an artist finessing a painting. His work cannot be hurried.

After I pay the bill, Roberta comes by to tell me how beautiful I look. Everyone in the salon agrees. She squeezes my arm, on the verge of giving me a hug.

Their irrepressible spirit of “la gioia” or joy is contagious. I leave with a spring in my step, reflecting that after many months seeing the wonders of Italy, visiting the salon might be the experience I’ll remember with the most affection. The haircut is just a bonus.