There’s just something about hearing a British person talk that puts a pep in my step.There are a lot of British people in Kuwait. They are crawling around everywhere and it is so fun. I love it.

Something seems to happen to me whenever I’m around a Brit- I turn into a mesmerized idiot. Okay, not really, but on the inside I do. On the inside I am shyly giggling like a little seven year old that is meekly asking Mark B., the gorgeous 12 year old that sings in the “big kids choir,” for a bible bookmark because, “I said all this months memory verses by heart!”

Aren’t you impressed Mark?

It’s quite a strange phenomenon. I don’t know why I transform, but I do.

Whenever I talk to someone from the U.K. I am not fully involved in the conversation. They are talking, and the whole time I’ve got the girly laugh going on and I’m repeating their sentences in my head with my best mental British accent, constantly thinking, “I love this person!”

You could have two total idiots-one a Brit and one an American- around me for 2 hours, telling terrible jokes and asking annoying questions, and I would simply not hate the Brit as much as I would the American because of their freaking accent. What is up with that!?

Okay, I LOVE America- don’t think this is that sort of post.

It’s more of a “I am fascinated by the fact that ‘fit’ means cute, and when you wear pants that means you’re wearing underwear and when you’re wearing trousers you’re wearing pants, and every other fun little words and phrases they use that we have no clue about.

We really have more language differences than I would have thought. It’s so funny. I mean, I knew things were different, but I have to admit, I was a little red in the face when M asked me for a rubber a few weeks ago…

ERASER you crazy girls!

What were YOU thinking!?

Ha ha. Probably the same thing I was thinking… I took another British person and 2 Americans to convince me he didn’t want to violate me.

Ha.

Go figure.

Eraser.

Those Brits live in a totally unknown world to us. It’s like we’re peering into some ancient Incan ritual and they’re getting ready to strip us naked and play their time-old treasured game of flag pigbladder football, and we’re just nodding our heads with stupid smiles on our faces, pretending we know EXACTLY what is going on. I am terrible with the stupid smile and shake my head thing too, it’s so obvious I have no idea what I’m doing.

It’s freaking English! There should be no gap!

I do, however, argue we speak “American” in the states, and the more I’m around people from the U.K., the more I totally believe we do our own thing.

That brings me to tomorrow.

Tomorrow morning is my big hair appointment.

Now, I should say that my personal experience with the British majority here does not exactly reflect the way things are in reality. While my contact is frequent, it is mostly either work related or hair related. Also, I’m generalizing my hair experience here. I would hope if you went to a British salon in the U.K. things would be different than they are here.

The whole “getting your hair done process” is like a whole ordeal here. I go to pretty much the only place in the country that does blonde hair. It’s a depressingly overpriced “We can charge you whatever the heck we freaking want because we have a monopoly on all you dumb blondes so just shut up, sit in the chair, and stop complaining about the cost because if it wasn’t for us you’d have jacked up hair” British salon downtown.

I like where I go… I guess. I mean, considering I know they know what blonde highlights are and can actually do them.

I go to a beautiful British girl named Layla. She is super quiet (at least, when she is at work) and has awesome hair- which is something that is crucial in a stylist, right!? She has always done a really great job on my hair. I’m always really happy, even though it always looks the same (we’ll get to that later) I have to admit, though, the whole American/British hair experience here has been somewhat of a let down for several reasons:

1.Little Variety.

I can pretty much tell you exactly what my hair is going to look like this very instant.

All I have to do is show you a picture of my sister.

She just got her hair done there last week. I can almost guarantee that what Layla did to my sister, she will do to me. This is scary for a few more reasons. I will put these into subpoints.

A. The first thing I literally thought

when I say my sister’s hair was,

“Woahw.” Yeah- Woahw.. like Woah

with a big and emphasized

wwwww.

She had super ultra blonde hair. Like yellowish. I totally freaked out because after I thought, “Woahw!” I thought,

“Crap. I’m looking at a replica of myself in a few short days.” Just take her, add some weight and height, and I’m a walking sun beam, blinding the world one hair flip at a time.

Oh, and don’t worry about me offending my sister, she was shocked by her platinumness too. They pretty much do their own thing where we go. I am all worried about going tomorrow because- first of all I don’t want people’s reaction to be, “woahw!” When they see me, and secondly, I really want to look nice for Will because we have a night on the town for our anniversary!

However, I feel I will be radiating the “Woahw” effect tomorrow afternoon. I just know it. How terrible is it to KNOW you are going to freak yourself out everytime you look in the mirror because your hair could serve as a potential energy source because of it’s reflective appearance before you even go to the salon!?

That’s bad.

It’s like going to the the bathroom KNOWING you are going to walkout with your skirt tucked into your panty hose (good thing that one’s ever happened to me…do you believe me? You shouldn’t.)

B. Last time my sister went she asked

for a few low lights. Layla looked at

my sister like she was a total idiot

and told her, “We don’t do that here.”

Only it sounded so much more joyous and wonderful to hear, “No you idiot! What in the crap are you talking about!? Leave the hair stuff to a professional ‘we’re better than you’ Brit honey, pft” coming from a British person compared to just a normal American person like you or me. (It’s all in their awesome accent, I’m telling you).

See, no variety… and if you asked for something different I would be terrified they would jack it up and make it really extreme instead of just a subtle change.

For example, I decided I wanted some side bangs a few months ago. I asked Layla for this and she pulled a large chunk of my hair and was about to cut thick and short bangs all the way across. I totally freaked out.

“Wait!” I politely yelped, about to throw up from nervousness.

I tried to explain to her what I was wanting. She looked at me like a light bulb went on above her head and she asked me in her sweet British accent,

“Oh, do ya mean ya want fringe (you stupid no-nothing American)?”

“Yes! Fringe!” I exclaimed. I then wanted to say, “but because you talk awesome I’ll take the ugly bangs if that was your original plan.”

Little variety.

This is my greatest let down.

All 15 of us blondes in Kuwait are walking cookie-cutter versions of each other. Forget the fact that skin tone and all that other stuff play a role in what color your hair should be. Here, at the depressingly overpriced “We can charge you whatever the heck we freaking want because we have a monopoly on all you dumb blondes so just shut up, sit in the chair, and stop complaining about the cost because if it wasn’t for us you’d have jacked up hair” British salon downtown, it is one color fits all.

“Oh! You have skin close enough to match Casper or Morticia Addams Brittny!! That’s great! Why don’t I give you lightening bolt blonde hair so you look even more albino!!?”

Again, it sounds a lot better with their urban London accents.

If Letitia (my awesome stylist in the states) would have said that I would have responded with a huge, “NO!” in an instant, but when Layla says it I’m like, “hmmm, you really think so? Yeah, I liked Powder…”

2 No Conversation.

I hate that about where I go! I loved going to my stylist back home because she became my best friend for the afternoon. We could talk about everything. She is so easy going and it was always so much fun. It was like a condensed grade school slumber party minus the pillow fight, scary stories, and gorging of Twinkies.

At my current salon I am afraid to breathe, let alone talk. Everything is so British and “posh (as they say!)” and in. Here I am wanting to yak Layla’s ear with my terrible Oklahoma twang, and she is having pieces of foil handed to her by the little indentured servant slave girls.

Hmmm, it’s like the Clampetts go to the Beauty Salon when I go there or something. It’s the longest 2 hours of my entire life. Ever.

I look through their British magazines- and by the way- all they talk about are the Beckhams in those things! It drives me bananas!  B-A-N-A-N-A-S!!!

It’s like I have to consciously tell myself to shut up. She’ll ask me one question and it’s like a horse race with the announcer screaming, “And she’s off!” and I go on and on and then have to mentally stop and turn off the talking switch. It’s a bummer.

3. No clean brushes.

This is just plain ridiculous, and I don’t think it is a British thing- at least I hope it’s not!

I think it’s just a salon where I go to thing.

Apparently at the “We can charge you whatever the heck we freaking want because we have a monopoly on all you dumb blondes so just shut up, sit in the chair, and stop complaining about the cost because if it wasn’t for us you’d have jacked up hair” salon, they feel that since they are charging everyone their sister’s kidney as admission we all have hair made of gold and so no one’s hair has fault or dandruff.

Oh, and we don’t even want to mention the “L” word!! (lice, that is)

I cringe every time she pulls out her comb and goes to town. I mean, at least make it look like you clean them often! I saw one stylist pull out a wad of hair that was imbedded in a comb and just toss it back in the little drawer.

AGH. Can I please freak out now!? Maybe it’s BYOC or something… but I highly doubt. Yeah, that can’t be a British thing. It must just be my salon.

Another thing is that they don’t stick me under the dryer. I hate that. I’ve always gone under the dryer for as long as my little head has gotten “peroxided.” They don’t do that here.

The first time I got my hair done Layla set the timer and I asked,

“Where do you want me to go?”

She looked at me like she had no idea what to say,

“To the store?”

“To Starbucks?“

“To hell?”

Instead she just said, “What?” in her wonderfully refined accent.

“Do you want me to go to the dryer?”

She looked at me strangely and said, “No, you’re fine where you are.”

“Oh, okay.”

You’re British so even if you’re wrong (which you totally are!) you sound like you know what you’re talking about, therefore I’ll accept your answer.

Had enough yet?… Okay, I’ll be merciful and stop today.

So I think I can overlook most of these little oddities. I can’t however shake off the fact that tomorrow afternoon my hair will look like a cross between urine and a banana. It’s just one of those unsettling things, y’know!? I’ll be honest and say I’m used to my sister’s brightness now. It just took me a couple of times. Hopefully I’ll say the same thing after I get mine done.

Tomorrow, as I walk the Green Mile to Layla’s chair of fear, I’m sure I’ll smile, crying on the inside, and will fall prey to her charismatic accent.

Those freaking Brits with their fancy accents… I don’t stand a chance.