O'Hare I hate you

Just text again. Sorry about that. Please read post anyway. It's almost funny.

Written while at the given airport. There was nothing else to do

I hate O’Hare airport. Two hours before take-off I’ve passed security and I realise that the Duty Free area is basically non-existent. I wasn’t planning on buying much to begin with but looking around is a  nice to pass some time. 

I always go to the gate first to check out what’s where and how long it takes to walk to the gate. On my way I pass a sad excuse of a shop selling magazines, sodas and a little to eat. On my way back from the gate to the sad little shop it turns out that the shitty fucking shop has closed! That means three things: 

1.    I’m not able to spend the last of my dollars. Fair enough, I only had about $12 left anyway.
2.        I’m not able to buy anything to eat or drink. There’s not even a vending machine here. It’s two hours to take-off and I know that I won’t be served that much too eat on the plane. Feck! Luckily I do have some fruit and a power bar in my bag. Here’s hoping it will last.  
3.        My plan was to buy a book at the airport since I finished the one I brought on my way over. I’m hoping I’ll be able to sleep much of the flight time, but considering my seating (see below) this might become difficult. I have my laptop but the battery won’t even last me half of the way over the Atlantic.

This is not what I expect from a large international airport that was once the busiest airport in the world. As if that wasn’t enough, upon logging in it turned out that there were only two available seats left to choose from on the entire plane and they were in the middle of a four-seater. That means that this is going to be a loooong, tight flight. Fuck times four.  

Post-flight note: The flight was excellent. I ended up having three seats to myself due to the priest who initially sat next to me found himself a window seat instead. I slept for most of the flight and played tetris on the flight computer the rest of the time.

The return of the bad hairdresser experience

Hello, yes, long time, no blogging. I'll come back to the rest of the London story in a later post, but first:

Remember my bad hairdresser experience? Well.... So I'm at work, minding my own business (not really my business, but I do work there) and I see someone familiar passing outside the window and don't you know it, it's that Swedish hairdresser that wrecked my hair before Christmas! Apparantly he's just started working at the hair salon close by and damn him, he recognised me as well (I have to walk past the hair salon to get to some other places). He even came in and said hello, and I just smiled fakely and said yes, yes, I recognise you, you cut my hair, yes, I just got a new hair cut, in London even and so on so forth.

It's a pity though, it's such a nice little salon where he's working now. The Boss Lady is a wonderful old lady, she used to do my now-dead-aunt's hair. I wonder why he quit that other place....?

I know I shouldn't write this in such a public place, but I'm feeling just a tad upset, why mad actually, and it's more therapeutic writing it and knowing that at least someone will read it (yes, that's YOU unfaithful reader).


Oh yes, you wonæt really get to see the rest of my pictures in London until late March. Apparantly I'm not allowed to put up any photos until after The Collection (that's the haircuts of me and the four skinny, but lovely, bitches that I worked with in London) is out, though I don't think I can be bothered taking down the ones I have already posted on the blog.

a note on hairdressers, especially Swedish ones

Warning! This post contains more text than images.

I don't like the concept of new year resolutions any more, I find they've lost their value, that is if they ever had a value beyond something to talk about on new year's eve. But if I were to have one, a general resolution, not a new year resolution; it would be to become more of a bitch to hairdressers.

I went to get a haircut just before Christmas. I went into the first salon I found since I only meant to get a little trim, get off those split ends. The hairdresser, a Swedish guest worker, was nice enough. I said don't cut too much of the length, I'm saving for longer hair. As he cut my gut feeling just became worse and worse and here my problem starts. I am just not able to say anything but yes, that looks nice, mhm when I should be saying I'm getting a bad feeling, I don't trust your skills, get those scissors away from my head before you do irreparable damage! I'm leaving! 

an image to look at, just to break up all that text. source

But I just sat there, as I've done many times before, hoping it would all be over soon. After the chubby Swede was finished harassing my hair and asked me what I thought of the result I said nice, lovely, mhmm, looks good. I got my stuff, went to the counter and paid the obscene price he said, even though this price did not include wash or styling. I paid and ran. My wallet felt harshly abused and was left naked without as much as a penny to cover itself.

What I should have said was something like What! Are you mad! I will not pay that much for your mediocre work, especially when you did not wash my hair or style it in any way even though I specifically asked about a price including washing and styling prior to you guillotining my poor defefnseless hair! Feck you!

So, yes, from now on I'm going to try to fight my urge to be polite and let them know my dissatisfaction before stuffing my Visa card in their little machines. What's your strategy when confronted with bad hairdressers?