Today I finally got a long-overdue hair cut. As I walked in to the place, I immediately suspected the middle-aged ladies cutting hair would speak no English (as opposed to anyone in the service industry under 30—especially girls—who, without exception speak a passable English.) When it was my turn, I got into the chair and she started rattling away in Bulgarian. All I could say was “не разбирам вългарски” (ne razbiram bulgarski,) I didn’t even know how to say “short.” Of course, the first question always is “how do want your hair cut” which—even back home—I never know how to answer. My feeling has always been: you’re the hair professional, you figure it out. And don’t make me remember clipper guard numbers—just cut my hair so I don’t have to go through this again for another 2 months.
However, this was my only accomplishment for Saturday. I slept til 11:00 and spent most of the day indoors; it's cold, gray, and now—snowing again. Oh, except this afternoon I went to see the new Jody Foster movie Flightplan with two Bulgarian girls. I don't want to give it away, but there is a not-so-unexpected twist near the end.