I was working in London and had some time between appointments so I decided to get my haircut. Not knowing too many places, I went to the hotel’s salon. I arrived to find a very friendly Frenchman and his assistant. They were both a little red in the face, but I didn’t think much about it. By the time he finished washing my hair, I was pretty sure he was drunk which was confirmed when he opened another bottle of wine. I figured he’d be fine as long as he took his time. Well, he was like Edwards Scissorhands. I swore he was going to hit my jugular and closed my eyes and tried to be as still as possible. My haircut was fine… not worth the currency exchange, but better. I thought about joining him for a glass, but there was no way I could catch up. Plus, a slurring French accent is not easy to understand.

-- Alan B., Sydney