Spanish views from a small town

I decided that, after six months, it was time to go put some color on my hair and cut the strands that never stay where they're supposed to. So, on this rainy morning I went into town, drove around cursing that for such a small town there's no place to park, waited for a rain squall to pass, and walked up the street to the haven of gossip. Because that's what a hair salon is. Just like a barber shop but with slightly different topics bandied about.  Conversation one: "I wouldn't use a hair iron if I were you." "But it's the only way to style my hair the way I like it." "No, you can also use a brush and hair dryer. It'll take longer, but it won't hurt your hair as much. See how dry the ends are?" Conversation two: "So they called me and asked me if I could wash the linen for the hostel this weekend because they were going to have people later this week." "And how did the clothes dry with this damp?"...

Like so many other women in this world I have a mother-in-law. Imagine all the connotations of this word and now add another. She's a Spanish woman who has lived in a rural village all her life. She gossips, she hates books, she loves celebrity talk shows on television, and she's always telling you what to do. Having raised six children and buried three, she is the only one who knows how to correctly raise a child. If you do it this way, she'll tell you modern methods don't cut it because she did it that way and they came out big, strong, healthy oxen. In other words, someone to visit every few days with closed ears but not someone to live with. Sometimes, though, she'll ask me if she can accompany me on my weekly shopping trip because there'll be things she needs and she hasn't got a car. Those Saturdays my spirits fall three stories to the floor. She'll begin in the car, telling me about the latest my father-in-law did (they don't get along, but ...