Powdery

I went for a haircut, to the Lebanese guy who is always a lively spark, this time with lots of animated chat about Palestine. He usually goes a bit haywire with the frontal area, exposing the hairline aggressively. Whilst men of a certain age joke self-deprecatingly, these changes do take some adjustment. He asked about receding hairlines in the family and I was desperately trying to recall my paternal uncle’s barnet.

He was getting rid of stray cuttings when he announced that today he had a special treat. He then produced some brown powder-cum-fake hair that can be applied to people with bald patches or vast tracts of scalp that they wish to cover up. He tipped my head back and coloured in some corners of my forehead. I don’t think it’ll catch on. No photos exist. I was desperate to get home so I could wash my fake hair away. I am British, so of course I didn’t express my displeasure at the time.

The evening was the highlight of the day. Dinner with my friend Conor, passing through from his base in Nairobi, and who I first met when we both lived in Cambodia. Absolutely great to be reminiscing about fun in times past.