It's not the conclusion, as hair has a habit of growing, but certainly the continuing tale. That first visit to the 'salon de Cabeza', was, as predicted, inconclusive. A repeat visit was required within a fortnight. Also required was a repeated request for the stylist to "keep wielding the shears". The damage to the pocket was minimal, a Scot's coifurist wouldn't let you sit in her seat for that charge. Still, a return visit will be required further up the road, only this time the Forager will enter armed with a picture of Annie Lennox, for whom she has been mistaken by visitors to her work site.
Having gained some degree of success with this basic haircut, she confidently enters the 'Salon de Estitica', for a 'wax'. Eyebrows and upper lip. Now I've seen the promissory board outside these establishments, those offers of procedures. Even in English, I would be baffled. When she returns, I can still make out the salt crusts of shed tears that streak her cheeks. No wax; they pluck. I'm totally gracious, utterly complacent, complimenting her beauty. Hell, I know what's good for me.