I have always loved writing, and now that I am retired I thought I would be able to find time to write, but it seems that I still manage to fill my days with activities. I have however found that while I travel, I enjoy writing about some of the interesting things we do. I hope you enjoy reading of our adventures as much as I like writing about them.
Thursday, October 16, 2014
What is 'Haircut' in Hungarian?
When I knew I was going to be away for a
month touring the capitals of Europe, I arranged to get my haircut a day or so
before leaving. Joking with my barber, I suggested that since I’d be in Europe,
he might want to give me an “European” cut. “Art,” he replied, “I’m Italian,
I’ve been giving you an European cut for the last 40 years.”
Don't take my picture, my hair needs cutting!
Regis is not so lucky, she has been
searching for 40 years to find a hairdresser she likes, and the search is not
over. As a result, she is normally trying to get an appointment anywhere just
before we leave to get her hair cut. She is not usually very happy, and this
time, after examining her cut in the mirror made the girl go at it again to
make it short enough and thin enough to last a month. It didn’t matter; two
weeks into the trip she was Marge Simpson every morning and her hair was
driving her crazy, so she was again using English to explain to someone who
does not speak English how she wanted it cut. This is always the situation, and
it has made for some interesting stories, so when she came back yesterday, I
felt a Blog Post coming on . . .
Don't know why the cut matters, she always wears her hat.
There was the time on the cruise ship, crossing
the equator in the Atlantic Ocean on our way to Brazil, when she decided her
hair was annoying enough she was willing to pay the cruise ship spa prices. As
she chatted with the hairdresser, she commented about her accent, and asked
where she was from. OMG, she was from Cape Breton, Nova Scotia, and Regis got
the employee discount.
Then there was the scary punk-biker-tattoo-pierced
hair cutter in Vancouver who turned out to be a real sweetheart, and actually
did a pretty good job. The Portuguese Hairdresser had no one at all who could
understand a word of English and she still went ahead with that cut and was
almost pleased with it.
Don't look at my hair, look at the scenery.
Of course the best haircut story is the
drop-dead-gorgeous 85 year old in Ottawa (Many of you have already heard this
story, so you can tune out now). Needing a cut while visiting the children in
Ottawa one Christmas, it was suggested she try a popular shop close to Ryan’s
house. After several failed attempts to get in, she was told the only person
available was the “Senior Stylist”, but “he was 85” she was warned. She said
she did not care, and was given an appointment in 30 minutes. “Imagine”, she
exclaimed to me, “that is blatant ageism – I don’t care if he is 85 and a
“Senior” so long as he can cut my hair. 30 minutes later she was shocked to
have a handsome young fellow working on her head, but was a little worried
about what happened to her 85 year old stylist. Enjoying the expert attention
and the attractive hairdresser, it all became clear when she got to the desk to
pay and was informed that the bill was $85.00. Sometimes you need a translator
even when speaking the same language . . . .
Love my new cut!
You know the really sad thing? It makes no
difference; I usually can’t tell the difference between one cut and another,
and I always get into trouble for not complimenting her on her lovely new
haircut. Of course when I do make a favorable comment it is invariably when she
really does not like the results of the cut. Oh, I think the Hungarian cut
yesterday slipped into the top 10 best . . . .