don't judge a book

if a hot pink sign on top of a vinyl sided warehouse reads: "thorobred lounge XV", it could easily indicate the local meeting spot for stable owning kentucky blue bloods sporting gold pinkie rings the size of pencil sharpeners.

probably not.

resistance is futile when it is time for "i-used-to-be-so-blonde-my-hair-turned-green-at-the-swimming-pool" to get the skunk stripe touched up with a few highlights. finding that "just right" salon/stylist/coffee shop sans poncey italian units of measurement/vietnamese restaurant with a kick-ass pho soup, is more challenging than locating a decent spot to sleep amongst a family of bears. and uber pricey/monochromatic/malnourished salon vidal sasoon; london is just as skeptically viewed from across monmouth street, as any converted victorian building-to-business "parlour" with frilly curtains and shrink wrapped pensioners asleep under the dryers.



this salon had a disco ball hanging in the centre (and very knowledgeable, skilled stylists with a mutual appreciation for all things low brow).

now if i can just find a gynecologist with something non-mirrored to stare at, on their office ceiling.