I opted for a haircut in Buenos Aires considering it cost two empanadas and I would be entering Euro territory soon. My hairdresser was a gently commanding woman who spoke no English, which was fun, constraining my picky impulses by a severely limited vocabulary besides 'un poco mas' (a little more) and "me gusta" (I like) and "
esto es como el corte de pelo de Boy George." Felt a bit like David Sedaris overemploying "d'accord" until he ended up unwittingly agreeing to a colonoscopy. The worst I've ended up with so far is goulash and my colon remains untouched but the product on my head is something between a bowl cut and these—
crazysexybutch.
I have found that navigating Icelandic streets is slightly less intuitive than finding my way around in Spanish. Thames, Honduras, Costa Rica, Avenida Santa Fe, Humboldt...Þingholtsstræti, Bólstaðarhlíð, Skerjafjörður. I sound something like a Swedish cow with marbles in its mouth.
Off to the protest.
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