I emerged poofed and blow dried, the new me. So far, rave reviews, but I’m waiting to see what happens when I wash and fail to blow dry it on my own...
The salon was a trip. Bless T’s heart for coming with me and persevering through three Self magazines while he waited. Now that is true love. The stylists wore tight headscarves that hide and mash down their hair, but seem to be masters at their art.
Of course I was dying to know how their hair looked. The place was on the second floor of a building through a dingy entrance, but had come well-recommended. They presented me with a braid of my cut locks at the end.Here it is, post wash-----
*well, at least according to the stylist
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Other, assorted:
One more birthday gift! The two sweet 80-something year old ladies at Meeting conspired to make me a cake, with a candle. They even sang. So nice!
I think half the car tires in this land need air—lots of squealing around corners, even at low speeds.
Found myself in a meeting at work with 16 people, and realized only two of us had English mother tongues (the other was a Brit), yet the meeting was in English. We are so privileged (and, at least I, so ignorant).
Now the blog “dashboard’ is coming up in Italian—I love it! Lots easier to figure out than the German or the Greek before that… So even the internet doesn't know where Beirut is.
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