Went and got a haircut today. Decided that this funky red, yellow, orange, brown shit that´s been going on for the last year just HAD to stop. And I need a style. Like, ANY style. Seeing as it´s been years since I last had one. Hell, anyone who knows me well would say I never had one and, well y´know, they´re undoubtably right.
So I was there in the chair, discussing with a young and typically bored and uninterested Berlin hairdresser what I wanted done. SHe sighed several times, disagreed with me several more times and finally shrugged and pulled out her assorted cutting apparatii. After about 10 minutes of her fussing around and yanking out handfulls of hair with attached scalp, I looked up from my book to discover that all she´d managed to do so far was trim the bottom. So I stopped her and pointed out that I wanted it shorter.
"Like this?" she asked boredly, showing me about 2cm off the bottom.
"This much?" adding an extra 3 millimeters.
"No. Here," I said grabbing a handful and holding up about half the length of my hair. "Cut it off to here. And layer it. And give me some sort of fringe." She looked at me with a bit of a `it´s your funeral´look and went to work.
30 minutes later she started dyeing my hair, once again only after a long and protracted discussion over my choice of colour, insisting that dark brown would make me look pasty and wouldn´t suit at all. About this point DrH walked in on his way home. We talked a bit, he touched my hair but made no real comment at this stage as it was half dyed and half in foil and I looked like a big chicken with a silver comb, and then he left. Importantly this conversation, as most of ours, occured in English. After he left the hairdresser found her voice again.
"What did he say about the cut?"
"No, really. He touched your hair."
"I mean it, he didn´t say anything."
She gave me a disbelieving look, one combined sneakily with a self satisfied look of "told you you shouldn´tve done it. Now see your husband thinks you look stoopid, Should´ve taken my advice. Hahah I was right." I´ve got a suspicion that the slight lip curl to the left may also have indicated a certain "Bloody foreigners, no fashion sense at all", but I may have just imagined it. And anyway, I happily admit that my fashion sense starts and stops with the first thing I find in the pile of clothes at the bottom of my closet, so she wouldn´t have been entirely wrong.
Another 30 minutes later and we were both staring at my reflection in the mirror. Hair half the length it was, dark dark brown and a semi, swept to the side fringe. I said nothing. She said nothing. I turned my head to the side. She cleared her throat.
"Well it looks better than I thought it would."
And that, dear readers, is high praise from a Berliner. High praise indeed.