It had taken me several days to pluck up the courage to...get my haircut. It's these kind of things that you do without thinking in your own country and when you can speak the language, but not the easiest when you're an English Man in Mons (as Sting should have said).
In the end it was actually fairly straightforward. It's one of those things that just involves a lot of hand gesturing, thumbs up, and smiles. The guy spoke a bit of English but it was probably worse than my French so we settled on French. He was from Morocco and we chatted about the snow and how much he missed Morocco, and how he learnt English when he was at school.
What was unexpected was being told to stand up after he'd only trimmed the back and sides and then led me towards...the sink. To have my hair washed. I didn't actually ask for this but couldn't find the right vocabulary (quick enough) for 'just a haircut,' so just let him do his stuff.
He gave me his card at the end and it said all haircuts include a cut, wash, gel and style. A very thorough 45mins haircut and all for only 8 Euros. The first bargain I've found here. Told him I'd come back but he just looked at me blankly so god knows what I actually said. Think I just got my tenses all muddled up.
Mons looked great in the snow. Not a huge amoung had fallen, but enough to give everything a decent covering and conceal the merde that lurks dangerously beneath.
The bin strike continued. Another rendition of hooting horns throughout the morning.
Went to a classical concert this evening which was thankfully not as morbid or as depressing as the free church concert last week. They even had free nibbles during the interval. What was funny was the very long introduction by a guy who clearly liked the sound of his own voice. Me and C just sat there confused for half an hour whilst he talked and talked.
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