Es obvio que no sos argentina porque vos no tenés el pelo largo.
My face, I've been told, could easily pass for Argentine. Most people here are a mix of Italian and Spanish with some Northern European here and there; my cheekbones and dark hair are anything but exotic in this crowd. There's one thing about my hair that gives me away, though: Argentine women wear theirs long. Really long. With nary a layer to interrupt the flow, it cascades down their backs until its final resting point at the small of the back or even lower. Sol doesn't know when this "hippie-chic" style became popular, but judging from the length of the manes wandering the streets, it must have been for some time.
Long, straight, brown hair—I could have passed as Argentine up until a month ago. Just before leaving for Argentina, I let a nice lady in Clairemont cut off about a foot of hair and donate it to make wigs. My hair hasn't been this short since I did the same thing the last time I ran off to South America just after graduating college. If I keep this up, I'll end up looking like Eric, who recently embraced sweet, shiny baldness after the power went off in a Tanzanian barber shop.
My short hair and Scotti:
Soon thereafter, my short hair freezing: