A surprising lack of flakiness (seeing my history and mass of my hair) spurred me to visit the hairdressers. With a check to be cashed and a stomach to be filled, I thought I'd better make it a jolly visit to the Earlsdon High Street.
After 2 months living here I'm still amazed by how many houses fit in one little block – and the houses don't even look small! [Well, from the inside that is.] Also, I can't believe that I can spend 5 minutes walking towards Whetherspoons, using shortcuts and all, but once I walk out Broomfield Road I'm still only at the edge of Hearsall Common! This place [Earlsdon] is cursed I tell you!
Made it eventually though, and even dared to enter Greggs for a sandwich. Lauded by Mike, I still don't understand the appeal of this shop – especially when I see people queueing outside. [I understand that should be a positive sign, popularity and all, but no.] Oh actually, the not-so-pricy sandwiches (1,45 for BLT) are a good reason I guess!
Opted for Hennesy's for my haircut in the end. Yeah I know lots of money but looked slightly more professional than the one further down the road. Have also had friends do my hair, but whenever I'd go to a pro afterwards they'd notice immediately [mainly due to 5 crazy hair root springy things spread over my scalp]. Anyway for some reason I always end up feeling very unwelcome in English barbershops. Have that feeling in the Cannon Park one. Definitely had that feeling in the campus barbershop. And had that feeling again today.
Basically, I walked in and made an appointment, and only had to wait for 20 minutes (which is when I went to Greggs for the sandwich). After finishing the sandwich the awkwardness began: it's as if they all come to check out if they actually want to come anywhere near your hair. Then there seems to be some kind of discussion going on in the background, while some sneak to other customers trying to get out of doing my hair by offering their services to easy ones such as 50 year old ladies with perm. [No offense to 50 year old ladies with perm. You're just easier customers than I am.]
Eventually, I did get my haircut. The shampooing service was awful. I had no idea what the girl grunted when she turned out to be asking for my bag, nor when she told me to follow her, or to sit down. A rough treatment at the basin followed, and I had no idea whether to laugh or cry when she covered all of my head with the towel to dry my hair. I made it to the chair in one piece, fortunately, ready for the next maltreatment.
The maltreatment never arrived. The short straw lady that cut my hair didn't say a word [the way I like it!] and was a perfectionist. I honestly think she had a look at every single hair on my head before she decided she could let me loose on the streets of Earlsdon. Very systematic approach – as opposed to let's grab any pluck of hair and make it look even – and I like the end result. Thank you lady with one massive blond-dyed strand of hair!
Oh yeah, so here's the new deal (more photos in Stuff gallery with slightly less confused [acted] look on face)