Going for the chop in Prenzlauer Berg

In an affront to common sense, I made an appointment at the local hairdresser (the Friseur) for 9am this morning. Having failed to wake up before 10am for two weeks (I'm putting in down to jet lag), I barely recognised the city at that time of the morning - people purposefully striding around the streets gripping onto their take-away coffee cups and bikes swerving in all directions. I could have almost been back in Sydders.

The "after-shot"

A basic task like a getting a hair cut can become a MASSIVE DEAL when you're in a foreign country. It took me about a week to work up to making the appointment, another day to learn all the vocabulary necessary to avoid ending up with tiger stripe orange streaks/a bald head/a bad fringe and quite a few hand gestures at the salon to communicate what I actually wanted done. This may seem like I'm making a mountain out of a molehill but I've had a few off-shore horror hair stories: there was the time in Vietnam where my travel buddy Kels and I were seduced by the promises of funky new do's at the salon in Hanoi. Our whispy Caucasian locks were no match for the deft scissors of the locals who chopped our wayward hairs into ill-fitting layers and bestowed startling bronze-coloured streaks on our otherwise dark-brown heads. Then there was that time at the salon in Verona, Italy where I ascertained up front that a cut and colour would cost 65 Euros, to be informed at the time of payment that it would actually cost 85 as they'd dried it with the hair dryer and would now have to pay extra for the electricity bill. Dodgy. Plus, no one wants their six months worth of holiday snaps featuring them with bad hair.

I knew I was going to have to bite the bullet and go for the chop when I started to have nightmares about turning up for uni in Berlin with my straw-like, multi-coloured mane. I chose the salon on the basis of proximity (down the bottom of my apartment building), its cool name - Kamm In (i.e. "comb in", haha get it?) and my housemate's recommendation. Bravely, I booked the appointment, dumbly nodding and smiling when the Friseurin suggested 9am. I later regretted the timing after a few Aperol Spritz with my housemate and her friends the night before but figured that the appointment wouldn't be too strenuous.

The Friseurin looked offended when I explained I didn't want fat orange stripes but rather fine, subtle, natural looking blonde streaks. "Klar," she said. "Ich mache keine grosse Streifen." I explained in broken German my reasons for concern, i.e. previous experiences, at which she fortunately cracked a smile and nodded understandingly. The whole event lasted a standard two hours, during which time I got by quite admirably in my opinion, explaining I wanted her to maintain the layers, feather the hair around my face a little, let the fringe grow out and alternate blonde and brown streaks for a more natural look. We even had a spontaneous conversation about the perils of hair straighteners, where I admitted I had once been addicted but had left the appliance at home thanks to restrictions on luggage weight.

Both the Friseurin and I were pretty damn pleased with the results and I'd loosened up a little, having managed to leave the dictionary alone for more than two hours. I headed over to the cash register, gripping two 50 Euro notes in my hand (around AU$160), prepared to pay for a job well done. The price? 38 Euros. I did a double take - in Sydney, a cut and foils costs more than a week's rent at even the dodgiest of salons. I handed over the cash, collected the change and headed out into the drizzly weather, thrilled at everything and deciding to potentially visit the Friseur every 3 weeks for the same delightful treatment.

Please note: above is a somewhat vain and cringe-worthy "after photo" of my hair. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't include a self-taken photo of my head but one can hardly write an entry about a hair cut and not display the results, oder?