Anatomy of a visit to the hairdresser

I view a trip to the hairdressers in the same manner that most people view a trip to the dentist. I don’t enjoy going to the dentist, but I know it’s necessary for health reasons and I’m always the better for it. However, going to the hairdressers fills me with dread. It is not something I view as truly necessary and I never come away feeling good about it.

Evolution (or some form of human-like being we can substitute for Evolution, if you will) has dictated that our hair production is patchy and localised in certain seemingly random areas. And Society (or a set of accumulated and largely-unwritten but fiercely enforced rules we can substitute for Society, if you will) has decreed that hair must be kept at a reasonable length. If you don’t, everybody hates you but doesn’t tell you. All they do is wait until you have it cut and then they say “thank God!” But it’s not God, it’s Society.

There is a long established pattern with me and visiting the hairdressers.

1) You arrive and they look at you like you are dirt until you tell them you have an appointment. Then you get elevated from dirt to an estranged uncle who might be rich and are invited to sit by the glossy but vacuous magazines for a while.

2) Eventually you are invited into a chair not unlike the dentist’s. I’ll use “she” to denote the hairdresser because statistically the hairdresser will be a she, even if it’s a man.

3) From the chair, you tell the hairdresser what you want; she repeats back to you what you want; and then she does what she wants. No matter how explicit you have been about how you want it, that’s not going affect the result. You may as well explain how you want world peace and respect for all humans for the outcome you’ll get.

4) Once she has done what she wants, she shows it off to you and you tell her you like it and pay her more than you do for a visit to the dentist.

The final step is you go home to your wife who berates you, demanding “why in God’s name did you ask for that?”

“It’s not God,” I explain, but she doesn’t want to hear it.

Football vs Shoes

After a tense month of country squaring up to country, passions enflamed by old rivalries and a need to restore national pride in these ailing times, Europe is getting back to normal. Obviously I'm talking about the football (that's "soccer" in the pidgin of North American.)

And when I say, "getting back to normal," I mean except for those people who understand the appeal of tennis or link their country's worth based on getting gold medal in synchronised swimming or stick throwing.

It's fair to say synchronised swimming doesn't enflame the passions like football does.

Football tends to divide people into two camps.

There are some for whom as soon as the championship starts, they dress up in extra large versions of their team's uniform, they paint their face like a flag and wake up chanting "Olay olay-olay-olay!" or something equally meaningful.

All of which shows people can be proud of where they come from and/or the country that has given them somewhere to live.

Greek Tragedy. Source:  afunnyoldgame.com

At the other end of the spectrum, you have people who say. "It's only football." "It's just 22 overpaid men, who love themselves a little bit too much, kicking some air wrapped in leather up and down what could be a perfectly good car park."

All of which are fair points. I've been told, during halftime, Cristiano Ronaldo has his hair styled. This may or may not be true, but doesn't seem ridiculous.

However these people will always let themselves down by having something they, themselves, irrationally get over excited about. Often it's shoes.

Shoes of the type people wear on their feet. Source: flickr/uggboy/ 

They see a new picture of a pair of shoes on the internet, designed by Jimmy Shoes or Patrick Socks or Christian Leggings (or one of those fellers), and they scream, "Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god! A new type of shoe! Olaaaaay!"

Failing to get the irony that "they're only shoes." They are small strips of leather you stretch over your feet to help protect them. Designed by an overpaid fetishist and made by scared, starving children.

My favourite sight during the world cup is often seen in bars showing an England match. There'll be at least one big, big guy. He'll be wearing the largest official top they sell, that comes to half-way down his belly. He'll have a huge beer in one hand and some sort of meaty, fried snack in the other. He'll be breathing heavily from standing up for 20 minutes and he'll be shouting at the screen at a player who has run the whole length of the pitch only to lose the ball to two very aggressively determined defenders, "Get off! Get off the pitch! You're unfit!" Right.

Travel 27/3/09 – Anniversary: Dallas, Texas

I spent much of the day digitally scanning old slides from the 60s and 70s and ripping music from the 50s and 60s. It was clearly what you call a retro day. I remember thinking that as I sat there in my spats and zoot suit.



What wasn't retro was the edible bouquet that arrived in the morning. In these "Hard Financial Times" (as I believe the newspaper is now called), people consider flowers somewhat extravagant, not having a practical value. So the new thing is fruit in the shape of a bouquet of flowers. The fruits are peeled and shaped and stuck on plastic sticks. This being the US, some fruits are covered in chocolate. I'm not knocking it. In fact, the banana covered in black and white chocolate won several Saliva™ awards or the Droolies™ as they're known.

The county where Cath's parents live is dry. This doesn't mean arid, although Texas is somewhat desert-like; it means alcohol is not for sale. Anyone who wants alcohol and time, day or night, has to get in their car and drive as far as the next county. Although, in fact, the local law was recently relaxed and it is now possible to get some alcohol at certain places and times, although I'm not sure of the specifics. This was fine by me as I was using this week to have a rest from the old short-sighted devil called alcohol. It was a scheme that lasted nearly a week after I got back to Amsterdam.

The reason for all the earlier retro activity was that we were celebrating Cath's parents' 50th anniversary. There was a party, held at a nearby hotel. There was a bar, but it was not a bar-partaking group. Many of the kin being god- and beer-fearing folk. I can't say as I have ever been to a gathering like this where someone didn't get drunk, so that was a novelty.

There was a toast and everyone was given Champagne glasses. What was in the glasses was not actually Champagne, but cider. And it was not actually cider, but what Americans call cider, which is really fizzy apple juice. Even so, people had to be told this, as there was some concern that it was alcoholic. The uproar had they been told it was Champagne and they must drink it would be nothing compared to the uproar at a British wedding were they served alcohol-free fizzy apple juice.

The party had a lot of speeches and reminiscences about the happy couple, most often about how helpful and supportive they were. In Cath's family there are a lot of people who have seen and done a lot and paid witness to great social changes. To me it's a history lesson every time they get to speak.

The downside of many people being older is that they don't stay up late and party like they used to. Although for jetlagged people always looking for their next bed fix, that's not necessarily a downside.

We chipped in a bit to make sure the bar staff got some tips for the night. It's quite normal in America for bar staff not to be paid by the venue, but by them receiving the tips. To European eyes, it seems morally suspect, but Americans are generally happy with it as part of their culture as they tip almost everybody. I've put a jar by the bed just to see how strong this compulsion is in Catherine. Not very, it seems.

Wednesday 11 June: San Francisco – My new favourite Asian city

Notice the UFO in the above picture. Is any more proof needed?

We grabbed our breakfast from the hall and then headed out. There was a whole saga in searching for a stamp. We gave up for then, but eventually had word that there was a post office beneath Macy's. We wandered down to Market Street via a somewhat dodgy area. There were many beggars and at one point a guy had fallen out of his wheelchair. Two motorcycle cops were already on the scene and taking charge firmly but friendlily. We caught the historic Tram Line F where old trams (not just from San Francisco but also from other cities are run for the use of locals and the joy of tourists. We caught it in a bad part of Market Street but it meant the tram was not too busy before the stop where all the tourists get on it. The line goes to the end of Market Street and then heads up along the harbour. We went to Pier 33 as the night before we'd booked tickets to go to Alcatraz.

Once the last place you might want to be sent, now huge queues of people wait to get on the boat to go there. The island is prime real estate; plumb in the middle of the bay with great views of both bridges and of the city itself. The trip over is quick, and the boats are large but full. You need a couple of hours to really do the island properly, even though there is much of the island you can't get to, either due to renovation / dilapidation or because birds are nesting. The island is prime nest site for gulls, guillemots and other sea-faring birds.


Most people start with the short film giving an overview of the history. It was originally made by or for the Discovery Channel and I had seen it before as it was somewhat familiar. So I even knew vaguely about the Indian Occupation which Catherine didn't. This, for those of you who didn't know was in 1969 when a group of Native American activists took over the island as a protest about the generally dreadful treatment they were receiving and had been receiving since the first boat load of immigrants piled into the country. In particular it was against a kind of forced integration that was in action at the time.





Wandering around the island is pleasant and no doubt good for you. But the most interesting part is the audio tour of the prison itself. Ex wardens and former prisoners tell you what was where, what it was like to be there, and about the various escape attempts. Some of the latter were studies in patience and ingenuity.




We took the ferry back. This is the only way if you discount swimming which is ill-advised because the waters have treacherous currents and sharks. The sharks however are only vegetarian, which means they kill you by boring you to death about how they don't eat meat. (Only kidding. Smiley face.)

San Francisco is one of the few major cities that still have abandoned harbour warehouses. In many other cities these have all been converted from crummy, rat-infested eye-sores to some of the most expensive places to live in the city.

We headed over to Chinatown. Actually half the city could be called Chinatown, but we were heading to the bit that has most of the restaurants. It was curious to hear the children on the bus all speaking Chinese to each other. It's not what I would have expected, but it was nice to hear. I don't hear enough Chinese these days except from random conversations on the train via the airport and from my Shanghai neighbour at work.

We ate in a Vietnamese restaurant that we think was called Pho or Golden Flower. I know, go to Chinatown to eat Vietnamese is a bit like getting French food in a Tapas bar, but Amsterdam is short of Vietnamese places. Keeping with the Asian theme, we went on to the famed Japanese Tea Garden. However it was shut.

That evening we decided to check out the real nightlife of the city. We took the old-fashioned tram to Castro, the lively gay side of town. Even for a Wednesday it was pretty happening. A few restaurants were open but we decided to look for our light supper in another part of town, supposed to be the main going-out centre, the Mission District. We walked there, avoiding dark streets, and for those of used to the scale of Amsterdam maps, it was a touch further than anticipated. The Mission District is a going-out sort of place, but it's also a bit down-at-heel. It's supposed to be good for bar hopping, but it's not like there is a line of bars, you have to know where the next one is. Most bars and restaurants were closing as we were arriving. The only clearly open eatery was a Mexican fast-food 'restaurant' (it had a counter and no chairs as far as I could see) which was packed and needed a security guard. The two guys who went in as we passed smelt like they had come from a cannabis sauna. They seemed to be in good spirits.

We also passed a guy who was dressed a pimp. The very stereotype of a pimp. If you'd have seen him in a movie or gangsta rap video you'd have said how clichéd surely pimps don't dress like that any more. I'm not saying he was a pimp, I'm only saying he dressed like one. And the girl on his arm dressed like a ho.

We realised a snack would not be forthcoming without queuing for a long time behind two guy who could be classed as a class-C narcotic. We bought some nuts and hailed a taxi. The taxi sped through the city and afforded us our first Bullitt moment. A Bullitt moment can only happen in San Francisco on those streets where the roads slope up or down but are level for an intersection. It's when you go too fast on the up or down and it causes a bit of a suspension crunch you hit the flat. I was so happy to have had this experience. Someone should start a Bullitt tour, so that any tourist can experience this (as well as a few key sites from the movie).

Sunday 8 June: Los Angeles – Muscle Beach (far away in time)

Sleeping was not as easy as you'd think. The hotel had one of those air conditioning systems that works by loud mechanical gears, clunking pistons and turbines from the days before oil. We found out in the morning it is possible to switch it off, but then of course everything heats up because LA is all about sunshine and chaos. It's hot and sticky.

Those of you who complain about the size of UK Sunday Newspapers should get a US Sunday Paper. There's enough written material here to keep you going a whole month. And enough wood to build a shed.

The hotel had a buffet breakfast like most hotels. It was pretty good with a fair selection. Best of all was a make-your-own-waffle machine. However, this was so popular you could never get to it for kids.

The morning concierge also had that actor look. It's pretty safe to assume everyone in LA from the road sweeper to the mayor is an actor. It should be noted that even the state governor is an actor. (In the loosest possible meaning of the term - he's actually only a bodybuilder who can read out lines, but in Hollywood, anything goes.)

We took a walk around the area. It was not the movie-star part of Beverley Hills, but a highly Jewish area. With kosher delis, Hebrew schools and groups of men walking around dressed in black with big hats covering little caps. We stopped in Label's (probably pronounced "Labelle" rather than "label") for so-so coffee and coffee cake. I liked the coffee cake, but it was perhaps a bit early in the morning for sponge. Cath said it wasn't at all what she thinks off when she thinks of coffee cake. The guy seemed to mutter when we only ordered coffee, I think annoyed that we didn't order any of their staple sandwiches.

A number of years back, a friend, Carolyn and I staged a few cultural exchanges. She came to London and I went over to see their three capital cities Washington DC, Disneyland and Universal Studios. Since then she's been married, separated and now moves in theatrical circles.

Carolyn and her friend Arjay had agreed to show us about a bit. As they were running late we decided we had time to feed Catherine. We went to "Factor's Famous Deli" which was closer, bigger and better labelled than Label's. We sat in the nice garden whilst Cath had a great ALT (Avocado Lettuce Tomato) on rye bread (of course) and I had a very decent cup of coffee (decaf as there had been much "caf" at breakfast). This meant we were a little late getting back and nearly missed the friends. But eventually we got together and drove to some of the places to see and be seen in LA.

First off was the Santa Monica Pier a popular tourist and pleasure zone. Off the pier is the beach front. The beach is beautiful golden sand made 1,000,000 degrees by the sun. Near the pier is Muscle Beach, made famous because here men and women with bizarrely formed pectoral muscles would perform amazing feats of sand-kicking.

Although we had been hoping for stars, the beach is more for your regular people, so we saw only one instance of over-the-top breast enhancement. We saw none of what we were really hoping to see (and something a lot of guys are apparently getting) butt implants.

Dogs were very much in evidence. LA is dogtown. People have all shapes and sizes of them. There is a tendency for the smaller more effeminate dog especially wearing a designer dog T-shirt, but you can also see many of the super-large variety often filling the back of a large pick-up truck.

We moved on to the Venice area named after the canals there. We didn't see any of those, but wandered down a street famed for its quirky shops and good eateries before popping in for some good old up-market slash quirky versions of regular foods. I had a pretzel burger which proved that sesame buns or wholemeal rolls are still the top thing to put burgers in and not pretzels. But you can't blame them for trying.

Along the beach a variety of stores and home-made stalls appealed to the hippy in all of us. And also the fashion victim in all of us, as the ultra-tight leggings painted made to look like jeans proclaimed. People sold their wears or set themselves up as human guitar-wielding jukeboxes. One man declared that he would insult anyone anytime for a fee. We nearly took him up on it.

Once again the so-called beautiful people were less in evidence. But then it was Sunday and they were probably in Church. Or at kabala school. Oh hang on, that's Saturday.

It had been nice to see Carolyn again, even for a short amount of time. We shall have to make sure it can happen again soon.

At night, back at our hotel, the streets were patrolled by gangs of men in black coming and going, possibly to their gang head quarters, or "sinnergogs." We had planned to go out and watch some sketch show performed by improvisers or some other Sunday twist on improv or just find a haunt to hang out with the stars, but tiredness due to obscene heat (in my opinion, not Catherine's) took over and we collapsed on the bed.

Saturday 31 May: Portland, Oregon – Falls and Roses

We woke up early and were treated to oatmeal. Yes treated. It was great. You know when you're getting old when your body starts craving healthy things. After that, we skipped out early for a long sojourn in Powell's bookshop The car park for Powell's is an adventure in itself. A steep, single-lane ramp for traffic arrives at the top to a sudden curve. Signs warn you to flash your lights and honk your horn before you get to the curve. Failure to do so could result in a nasty little crash right at the top of said steep curve. Dents and scratches along the wall testify to some badly-judged turns.

The area we passed through before had once been warehouses. But as with cities the world over, the former warehouse and dock districts – once the busiest areas, then later the most run-down and undesirable – have been revamped and turned into high-class dwellings and fancy restaurants. The unliveable becomes the most desirable.

We wandered for a while around the farmer's market: an area of crafts and healthy-eating stalls. And many had samples, and it's very easy to shamelessly pick bits from each stall, as long as you look like you might buy, and especially, as in our case, you do actually buy some things once in a while.

The area round the market was filled with churches. Now this isn't a revelation for a country that is pretty much filled with churches. But what was interesting was the variety. Not just in building design but in denomination. There were a few new churches oddly in the style of the older European churches. Some religions like bold and brash buildings, some prefer modest. The Korean Christian Church was a lot bigger than I would have thought such a church would need to be, and a lot more European in design than I would have expected. The 'Old Church' was of the old American wooden design. "Old" meaning dating from 1882. As Catherine pointed out, in Europe, this would be called the New Church.

Because it is important to be visible in a land of advertising, Americans often come up with some great names for shops and businesses, as well as coming up with some terrible puns. The doggy day-care centre called Virginia Woof tends towards the former.



As promised, Patrick brought us to the Rose Garden, a peaceful, well-arranged collection of rose bushes and other shrubbery and treery. In there we found the plaques with the names of each year's Rose Queen, picked as part of the Rose Festival that was actually occurring in the city as we were speaking. The blank space in the photo is for 2007. We were assuming the girl for 2007 will be added after she stops being queen next week, and has not been omitted due to scandal. We rode the free shuttle bus up to the Japanese garden, saw it had an entrance fee and as we were getting through the afternoon at a rate of knots anyway, we simply rode the free shuttle bus back down again.




After popping in briefly on Joyce's mother (Joyce is Cath's cousin somehow in case you're wondering), we headed on for Multnomah Falls. It's a very impressive shoot of water that falls out over a sheer cliff, bounces off rocks on the way down to crash onto the pool and then over another fall (or autumn as its called in England). It falls 620 feet and is the second-tallest year-round waterfall in the US, they say. Because of a breeze there was a fine spray of water coming off the waterfall. Not unpleasant at all. A path snakes its way up the hillside to the top of the waterfall and beyond and is rather popular with walkers. On the way up, there is another waterfall, much, much smaller. In any other location, we would have stopped and marvelled at the beauty of this wonderful natural phenomenon. But placed here, it was just, well, whatever.

Around Portland is a mountainous landscape. Nearby is Mount Hood, with its large white peak, if I remember correctly, the only mountain to be within a US city limits. Also nearby is Mount Saint Helens, which noticeably has no peak. Older readers might remember that this came off in 1980, when it unexpectedly erupted killing 57 varieties of people.

The Portland area is also full of Lewis and Clarke sites. Those of you who happened to read of our earlier trips to the US, will recall that at a couple of places there was talk of Messrs Lewis and Clarke, most notably Harpers Ferry. So no doubt you recall that these two plucky pioneers mapped out the fledgling United States by crossing it. Only recently have people bothered to point out that they didn't just do it alone, they had considerable help from real locals, most noticeably their guide: a young, heavily pregnant and later nursing girl.










We got half way up to the top of the waterfall before we had to head back. We had a date with 18 teen princesses. That's right. Originally Catherine and I had planned to go and see an impro show. But when we arrived we found that it coincided with the big parade that was part of the famous Portland Rose Festival. Voted the best festival in the world, no less. Not sure who by and for what reason, but we didn't argue with this. Added to the fact that one of the 18 high-school girls elected as the Rose Princesses was a cousin of Catherine's meant the event was unmissable.

We were invited (as select members of the family) to a reception in the Art Institute. Because of expected crowds in the centre of town, we parked some way away in a mall and got the Max (tram) to the area we wanted. After exploring the area of the Art Museum, we headed over to the Art Institute. There 18 girls of an impressionable age were assembled with friends and family. The girls were dressed in identical jeans, Princess T-shirts supplied by Ikea and tiaras. Because the photos of the princesses had been displayed on the front page of the local newspaper which we had perused, the girls were already familiar to us in a way that made me want to go and ask for their autographs. After general mingling, the girls lined up to perform their ditty. This was a dance routine followed by a line-up in which they introduced themselves, gave us some information about their educational plans and then advertised some aspect of the Rose Festival. It really gave you a feel for their personalities and helped you speculate about which one would be chosen and inaugurated as the Rose Queen next week. As Cath pointed out, being stuck with 18 teen princesses in a swimwear exhibit was another thing to cross off my to-do list.

After the reception, we rushed over to have probably the quickest Thai meal in history. Then it was time for the parade. We had to at least wait for the princess float which we already knew was 87th. The streets were lined several people thick, but as many were sitting, we could still see pretty well. I had never seen a live high-school marching band before that time. I hope never to see one again. I have had my fill. It seems every third item was a marching band. One of which seemed to be the longest marching band ever. It had front and rear cheerleaders and side water-feeders. It went on and on playing the music all marching bands play: Louie Louie and Louie Louie. Actually they played something else, but it all sounds the same played by a marching band.

A vast improvement on the marching band concept is syncopated drumming. This is a marching band of drummers who play many drums interweaved creating highly complex rhythms. It's loud and boisterous.

Where we were standing was the first bend of the parade. It was a narrow 90 degree turn on a route lined with people. Some of the huge trucks filled with waving people looked like they would barely get round the corner without crushing a few forelyers, but they always made it admirably.

Eventually entrant 87 arrived, a float adorned by 18 princesses. We waved and cheered, although our princess happened to be on the other side of the float. Which was fine as her mother was on the other side of the street.

Heading back, the Max was maxed out, packed to the gills with people. Reports of fights breaking out on earlier trams came to us, but ours was relatively calm with the worst danger a student who was in danger of puking.