Apart from a trip to the cakeshop, one of my most favourite things to do when visiting a new country is to visit the hairdressers.
Getting one's noggin worked on in a strange environment is surely one of the easiest and most rewarding ways to interact in a new environment.
In Thailand, my scalp was caressed and massaged whilst my coiffure was whipped and sculpted into a frightful exposition of grandiose proportions.
South Korea was memorable particularly for the pampering and buffeting - administered by three seperate attendants. One girl's job was purely to hold a sponge on my forehead lest a shorn hair stray into my sightline.
I'm not sure exactly what happened in China. It was all a bit of a blur after I passed out on hairspray fumes.
I went to get my haircut here in London yesterday.
Audrey suggested I get it cut "...like David Beckham". I have no idea what David Beckham's hair looks like this week.
When I got to the hairdresser, I asked her to cut it "...like David Beckham. Or something."
I could tell she could barely contain her indifference to my request, and approximately three seconds later she was hacking away (one hand on hip), attacking my pate with her razor in much the same way a small child might torture a dying animal with a pointy stick.
I just checked online.
My Hair looks nothing like David Beckham's.