Weekly Photo Challenge: Warmth

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This is what you get for taking pictures in dark restaurants without the flash… Still it says warm candlelight to me…

There will no fireworks from me …

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… to ring in the New Year.
… instead a calming sunrise and the amazing ripples of the Southern Cross Railway Station roof in Melbourne

My hairdresser (s) and I

Today I present Chisu and Baden Baden. Extremely catching song! I was sitting in Ts chair today, a helpless victim under a black shroud listening to this waft over me and started to think about all the people who have ‘done’ my hair over the years…

Mum is the first, responsible for not just those early cuts, also my first chemical experience in the form of super-stinky eye watering home perms. Wow! I loved those curls. Around the same time I started to get into colour and although it’s been many years since perming lotion was anywhere near my head, (I can’t use tresses as long hair is not my thing and although it is short and a little curly, to use those two words together and hyphenated will give entirely the wrong picture) I can say that colour and I have rarely had a long separation. The ‘blame’ for that rests with the paternal side of my family tree. My first grey hair arrived about the same time as my 21st birthday and they just keep on coming…

Over the next few year I went to a few different ones both in Hobart and then Melbourne. There was Allsorts (as in liquorice) and the one-man show in Nth Melbourne who was really sweet and kept asking me out. At that time I wasn’t looking for a boyfriend, just a good haircut. Then I moved across town and had to start the hunt for a good local hairdresser all over again. Senile moment here: I cannot remember the name of the salon that I patronised for many years.

It was the ultimate in hair and scissor relationships. I left them do what ever they wanted. They wanted to do lots and lots of wonderful things! By this time I was someway away from the public eye so weird and wacky (well weird and wacky for 5 star hotels) hair was acceptable. Super short, asymmetrical and my all time favourite pink all came and went. The highlight of our relationship was the time I was a hair model. My one moment of being uber-cool. Great, yet totally impractical hair atop a bland whited out face.

Somebody must have cut my hair when I was living in Alice Springs, yet I can not even picture what the inside of the salon looked like. Similarly, my time in Cairns was so short that it’s quite likely I skipped right over the business of finding a fitting hair salon. When I was living on board it was merely a matter of checking into the salon and taking advantage of crew discount. Because crew are always signing on and off, it’s often impossible to build the same sort of relationship that you enjoy on land. I’d just found the perfect match, well her scissors and my hair when it was time for me to sign off.

The next few years are best described as being in the badlands. Visits to salons were few and far between. My hair grew long, those bands of grey at the roots grew longer still. A forgettable salon in Hobart, one of my mother’s group mums, another forgettable salon in Coral Springs (FL). By now I was getting a little tired of not having that relationship, so when it was obvious that we were going to be staying in Finland, the salon hunt began in earnest.

Our first permanent place in Helsinki had a salon right across the path. The was another at the end of the street and yet another two blocks down. You are never more than two blocks from a salon. That’s how it seems anyway. In the early days, if I thought there was a chance that I wouldn’t be understood I would take a picture with me and write down the key terms in Finnish. The absolute worst experience was taking Mr. 12 for a cut at the salon across the street. The hairdresser only spoke Estonian and Finnish, and my clumsy Finnish was getting us nowhere. In the end she called her husband who spoke a little English and between us we got a haircut.

Eventually the lady across the way moved to a bigger salon, and we moved our custom with her. That was the beginning of the end. Her salon was bright and airy, nice comfy chairs and great music, it was just a shame that staff turnover was so high. Short hair is high maintenance and it helps a lot if the person cutting knows how you wear it, what your life is like and also what colour was used last time. After I had been 4 times in a row and each time there had been a new hairdresser I decided enough was enough.

I walked into the closest salon to home. That was three years ago and I haven’t looked back! They know me and my hair. They are quite happy to natter on in Finnish with me and don’t appear to mind my mangled responses. It’s been really good for my Finnish (and my hair). I dread the day that T retires. What will my hair do then?