Local Engrish and other oddities, courtesy of Bangkok Bob.

I’m learning a little Thai every day from my friend Pao at tai chi class. I need him to coach me on phrases to use at the hairdresser, especially “stop doing that”. I’ve recently incurred the worst haircut I’ve had in several years. “Same as before?” asks the hairdresser, who has cut my hair three times now without mangling it too much. “Yes,” I say. Which is why, when I am momentarily, fatally distracted by an image of a vintage Talbot Lago in a magazine, she drags my middle-parted fringe off to the left and lops it to fall sideways, and mercilessly thins my thick hair until it looks like all the rats of Bangkok have been chewing on it. Then she cuts way too much off the bottom and doesn’t touch the upper layers, so that it looks, well, fucked. I got her to fix the fringe, at the cost of it being too short, and reminded her to layer it, which she did with all the finesse of a kindergarten child using blunt scissors for the first time. I have to blowdry it straight down or I look like Rexor. Of course, with it straight, I look like Thorgrim. And learning the requisite Thai might not even solve the problem - as we all know, hairdressers are liable to do this kind of thing even when you share a mother tongue. I’ve come to the conclusion that hairdressers hate hair. They want to destroy it. If you have hair, they want to take most of it away from you and abuse what’s left. They are a cruel race, born of utter darkness and the pit of punishment.