Yesterday, I decided it was time for a haircut. Hopping onto my punk bici (bike), I zipped through the streets of Rimini, in search of a hairdresser. Finding a hairdresser, no problem; finding an open hairdresser, grande problema.
Understanding that Italians are of a superior nation, a nation who put style and comfortable digestion before punctuality and operating hours, I sought the advice of my flatmate.
One phone call and Enrico had an appointment setup for me with his usual guy, Sandro. It would seem that, like most things in Italy, hair salons keep flexible hours.
I find Sandro waiting in the doorway of his 'office', enjoying a cigarette. "Il primo taglio, in Italia?" he comments, while I lock up my bike. It sounds like some kind of right-of-passage, or, more likely, I really need a haircut.