I have this picture in my head: a cute bob with the edge a little higher at the back and a little longer at the front and lots and lots of layers at the back. I have been to the hair dresser three times in the past year, pointed to the picture of this in his book and each time come out with something different. The first time it was just rescued from being a mullet. Absolutely not what I’ve been dreaming of.

A friend of mine has short hair and it always looks nice. “Aha!” I cunningly thought after I saw her last sporting yet another fab do, “I’ll go to her hairdresser.”

I turned up armed and ready: print outs of exactly what I wanted from the front, side and back. No room for confusion this time. No siree!

Chop, chop, brush, brush, snip, snip. It was going swimmingly. Best still, after asking where I was from and my name, he didn’t try to talk too much to me.

Sitting next to me was a platinum blonde getting something done with her colour. About two thirds of the way through my cut, she started getting antsy: she wasn’t happy.

The simmering turned into a boiling, “My husband only has one day off a week..”

“Oh bloody hell,” I realised, “She’s British.”

“..and I’m wasting it in here!”

Heads remained still, eyes around the room picked out other eyes.

“I wanted a rinse! I’ve been here three hours and you’ve done nothing!”

“Yes, madam,” my hairdresser said, “we gave you a rinsage.”

My hairdresser, Sam, was Lebanese. Lebanese generally speak Arabic first, French second and English third. His English wasn’t fluent, but was comprehensible (and come on, his third language!).

“But I wanted a rinse!” At this point we are now rising up the decibel scale.

“But madam, yes, we gave you a rinsage!”

The other client and I had stopped breathing.

“I just want someone who speaks ENGLISH!” Now topping the decibel range.

Other client and I shifted uncomfortably.

“Nobody’s fucking listening to what I’m saying!” she said under her breath, but loud enough for everyone to hear.

“I JUST WANT SOMEONE WHO SPEAKS ENGLISH!”

Absolutely dumbfounded, probably with my mouth gaping, eyes certainly popping out of my head, I thought about saying something in her beloved English along the lines of, “We’re in Egypt, nobody has to speak English!” but was in too much shock to say anything.

The Egyptian lady on the other side of her volunteered to translate in a tone, lost on the British woman, that saw stern and utterly disapprovingly.

In the end, Blondie flounced out of the salon without paying.

My hairdresser was by now just as furious as Blondie had been, but he couldn’t flounce out. I, still mortified, sat stock still and didn’t say a word.

This was rather unfortunate.

Hairdresser Sam was taking his pent up frustration out on my hair.

I breathed deeply decided that I would sit back and think of the UK. Not wanting to give everyone in the salon, who was now watching Sam, further reason to think that British women are cows I resolved to keep my mouth firmly shut.

Perhaps too firmly. When the receptionist looked at me, then up at my hair and asked perplexedly if I liked the cut, I should have broken down and started wailing there and then. With valiant stiff upper lip, I smiled politely instead and said, “Yes. Thank you.”

So, great my country men, in the name of your honour and all that is good about our great nation, I now sport a haircut that looks like a short, curly Worzel Gummidge with an uneven pudding bowl.

And to my one particular fellow country woman: if you wake up and find your hair dyed green, or wake up to find it has all been shaved off, you’ll know I’ve foregone my right to pistols at dawn.

First the stomach starts clenching. Next a rats nest of blazing fireball shoots up to my chest and sits, a burning cocktail of indignation and humiliation.

There are many things that caused this when I first moved here: taxi drivers’ roaming hands as they ‘opened’ the passenger door for me, getting ripped off, taxi drivers taking the ’short cut’ which always involved an extra 45 mins journey time (and therefore increased fare), sleazy comments made as I passed a group of men and being told something will take five minutes and then being made to wait an hour. And that is just for starters.

I have (I think) learned a great amount of patience on a number of different levels. I didn’t enjoy the process much, but it’s probably not a bad thing to have learned, especially as I held the double title of Miss Super Efficient and Miss Goody Two Shoes for all the years of my life pre-Egypt.

There are, however, two things that still get my goat and I cannot get over them. First up is the lack of respect for customers by supermarket staff. They have yet to realise that their behaviour towards customers impacts where the customer will shop in future. They have no qualms about pushing you aside to get past and under no circumstances if you meet where one needs to give way, like the entrance to a narrow aisle, will they give way to the customer. Ever.

The second fireball-inducing happening involves groups of pre-pubescent and teenage boys. For some reason, probably because they’ve seen their fathers/uncles/cousins doing it and want to be macho like them, they make sexually degrading comments (and depending on where you are, actions). Unlike the supermarket, where I show restraint, I am not usually so calm around these guys (and hey, better out than in, right?).

Today I passed six of them mincing towards me. The mutterings under their breath while simultaneously not taking their eyes off me was a pretty clear indication of what was coming. I knew they wouldn’t touch me, but the stomach clenching had begun. I let the first comment directly to me go unnoticed because sometimes they just leave it at that. This guy, incidentally the smallest of the group by a good half metre, obviously had to make up for his inadequacy by a second comment.

I have a bit of a frog in my throat (not from French classes) at the moment, which makes me sound like a 40 a day 60 year old fisherman’s wife, which happens to be a bit like an Egyptian Momma. “You think you’re so big? Huh?! You’re,” (hand gesture indicating 1 cm tall), “THIS small!” I growled loudly.

Of course, they cracked up repeating it and laughing. That’s normal (and hey, I have no idea how what I said actually translates socially/culturally in Arabic, it was just the first thing I could think of).

Part of the reason this enrages me so much is that, as is typical, when this incident happened, there were four fully grown men on the street, before and after the group of boys. Not one said or did anything, and they’d blatantly heard the comments.

Allied to this is the fact that it forces me to stop ignoring the fact that I am viewed by many, by virtue of my heritage and clothes (which were today, by the way, baggy, long sleeved and high necked), little more than a common hoar [ed. whore].

Not a good feeling to be left with.

The only thing I have found to make it better is to treat the next Egyptian male I meet with the respect I didn’t receive from the previous. Not always easy and not always reciprocated, but it makes Miss Goody Two Shoes feel at least she has the moral high ground.

There is an unwritten law that water cuts only occur at the worst moments. In Jordan it would happen without fail every time I returned from the desert, covered in a pale orange dust. Sometimes it would just not be on when I returned and other times it would let me get in the shower, half lather up and then just stop.

In Egypt it is usually on the hottest days. Now, that doesn’t just mean the stickiest days of Summer, but the warmest days for that season. And always, always, always, it is when you need it least to happen.

Like yesterday.

And today.

In fairness they haven’t been total stoppages for the most part, but there has not been more than a dribble from the showers.

This morning, I heard a definite gush of water as Mr S turned on the shower with pressure to rival any power shower (we don’t have one) and relaxed happy to know I could get a decent clean today, not just a spit and a lick.

I took my time, ready to enjoy the feeling of getting clean that incrementally increases the dirtier you are. I prepared my clothes, got my favourite creams and brushed, brushed, brushed away, at my hair turning the curls bushier-looking than ever before and stepped into the shower.

Tsssssssssss.

A mere dribble from the shower and definitely not enough to penetrate the hedge on my head.

And so it is that today, my modest crop of hair has turned into a beehive to beat Amy’s any day (or night) of the week.

So, you’re in Egypt on a one or two week holiday. You’ve been to the Great Pyramids, perhaps even Saqqara, you’ve looked around the museum, had sheesha in Fishawy’s, haggled in Khan el Khalili, taken a Nile Cruise and seen more sights in your short time than you ever thought possible. It’s your last day, you’re quite tired, but remembering people back home, you go to buy some postcards.

And this is what you find:

Umm, Love on the Nile?

Interesting that the female is blond and the male darker (although by Egyptian standards, he would be classed as blond). There is been a general assumption that desirable woman are blond (and blond women are desirable). Note that desirable and wife-material are not the same.

Uhhh, sorry, what’s that you say? A spot of Orientalism? No thanks, I’ll go for the just downright racist.

Can you imagine that last postcard with a black man/woman fanning a white man/woman? Heavens above!

It must be said that when I went to pay for these cards the very nice, very helpful, extremely respectable, older generation Egyptian shop keeper gave them to me for free. And there were more typical photo-type cards on sale.

But these do exist and they are out there.

And that means that someone must be buying them!

My quietness has been induced by the sort of cold that turns your brain to the colour and texture of mushy peas.

It hasn’t stopped all sorts of strange things going on in the world around me, and unfortunately I wasn’t hallucinating. First there was the all day power cut, somewhat of a pain because I couldn’t snuggle up on the sofa in front of rubbish daytime TV. The next day, there was a water cut. Fantastic really. Then the phone line was cut while I was talking to someone. No idea what happened, but guessing that someone in the Sentraaaal pulled out the wrong plug, or changed the wrong switch - and not for the first time. So, no home internet, but thanks to a local embassy that has a named and unsecured wireless connection, I could hop online and at least listen to Radio 4.

The piece de la resistance came yesterday morning, when (phone line and internet connection working again) the internet service provider (well, service in its loosest form) sent a notification that we owe money for October and for November. Had, in September, we not paid three months in advance, I would have no quibble, but given that we did, that this was the third time we received the message and that after visiting the branch office we were provided with a paper that said the company owed us money, I was quibbling rather strongly.
So, it was with great delight that this morning I found a Customer Experience Survey in my inbox. Rubbing my hands with glee, I opened it. Check out this cracker:

What method of notification would you prefer? (Rate the below methods of notification according to you preference: 1 is highest, 0 is not applicable)

E-mail 0 1 2 3
SMS 0 1 2 3
Notification Page 0 1 2 3
Other: 0 1 2 3

I’m not altogether sure what 2 and 3 are doing. Probably likely that it goes something like this: Email - 0 not applicable, 1 highest, 2 lower, 3 lowest. Alongside stationary, questionnaires are up there with my favourite things. Badly designed questionnaires are like fingernails down an old chalk blackboard.

Given that this company doesn’t have a complaints department, or anybody who can actually deal with complaints in Customer Services (according to a call centre worker when I asked before), I’m not sure if there’s too much point in filling it out. I will, however, tick some boxes in the hope that (as USAID and similar organisations plan) perhaps something as simple as consumer rights might one day lead to democracy.

Not, of course, that there isn’t a democracy here already.

Being in The Hood, I have my finger on a delayed pulse of the hip and happening Egyptian music scene. So, despite buying the year’s hottest CD a few months ago, today was the first time I listened to it all the way through.

Far be it for me to comment on the musical genius that is Amr Diab and his bulging bank account, but he is a giant unparalleled in Western music. An album release by this guy is followed less than a week later by his songs being played in all taxis (that are not playing the Quran) and the entire Middle East knowing the words to the entire album by the end of the same week. Not that the lyrics are particularly complex, but still…

Just in case we were in any doubt as to the arteest’s patrons, the latest album cover has two corporate logos on the front: Pepsi and Rotana (a Saudi owned record label that has six music channels on which it airs its artists - Simon Cowell is nothing compared to Prince Al Waleed bin Talal).

So that you too can keep up to date with the bangin’ Egyptian music scene, I’ve popped in a little video of the first track on his latest album. Before you watch it though, an interesting point: check out him following Natalie Martinez at the beginning. This is exactly what teenage boys frequently do to girls walking down the street here. It seems to be more fun when she’s blonde and they think she doesn’t understand what they are saying. It has a tendency to bring out an anti stalking rage in me unparalleled to most other things!

Did you notice the product placement at the beginning? Oh, yes, he may be the King of Cheese, but never let it be said that he’s an impoverished arteest.

After all, looking 20 when you are in fact 46 doesn’t come cheap, not even in Egypt.

My friend was walking down a road in the Hood yesterday with her 1 year old daughter strapped onto her front. She is not Egyptian. She was wearing a V-neck loose-fitting T-shirt (so, not tight or too revealing). Her daughter was holding the hem of the V. A group of teenage boys was walking towards her. She knows something is going to happen: it always does.

Sure enough, the group approach her to touch the baby. One of them ‘accidentally’ touches her breast as he touches the baby’s hand.

They walk off giggling.

Now, perhaps, he really did touch her breast by mistake.

Perhaps.

Chances are slim though, given that a) he would have probably noticed her breast before the baby (if her husband was carrying the baby, would they have stopped?) and b) had the girl been his friend’s sister, you can bet your life he would have managed to NOT touch her breast.

What’s the difference between my friend and a hypothetical sister of his friend? Nothing, other than he wouldn’t want to disrespect his friend.

Nice, huh?

*Hoda Shaarawi was an Egyptian feminist who lived from 1879-1947.

I had arranged to be picked up from the mall/shopping centre at Door 1. This isn’t any old shopping centre, it’s huge and still expanding. The distance between alternative doors is great. So, I get to Door 1 to find a throng of people arguing with security who are not letting them out. There seems to be no reason for not letting people out, just that that’s the decision. The argument gets heated and one little wifey pushes her way through, only for another security guard to jump out to block her way.

Now, out on the road, where the car is supposed to come, are policemen who make sure that cars do not wait. People can jump in, but that’s about it. If you’re not there in time, the car gets moved on and it’s another 15-20 mins before it can get back. A total pain in the arse.

So, realising that I don’t have much time left now, I run down to Door 2. I get outside and then find that for some reason you have to do a very large circle in order to get to the pavement outside Door 1, and I definitely don’t have time for that. So, leaping into action, I secure my purchases under my arm and run to the barrier (in red on map) and jump over it. At this point security from Door 2 come outside and start shouting at me. Undeterred, I continue my jaunt.

I’ve drawn a map to help explain this because it is so nonsensical that you’ll get lost otherwise (as did I).

(click image to enlarge)

After leaping over the second barrier, the cries of “Madame! Madame! Madame! Madame!” coming from Door 2 security begin to come a little closer. Not to be stopped mid-flight I pick up speed and mount the third barrier.

By now, security from Door 2 has attracted the attention of security from Door 1 who rushes to the last barrier in my way. “Don’t let her get through! Stop her! Stop her! Madame! Madame stop! You can’t go that way! Stop! Don’t let her get through!” is resounding through the forecourt.

Obviously realising that the mad foreign woman is not to be messed with today, security from Door 1 indicates that I can continue over this barrier (luckily there was a hole that I can get through instead - I’m not that athletic). “No! No! No! She can’t do that! Madame! Madame! Come back! Come BACK!” poor Door 2 security is still shouting.

To no avail however, because I get to the car just before the policeman moves it on.

Security from Door 1 was right: I am not to be messed with today. An argument at 7.30 am with the internet company (delightful details in another post) didn’t put me in the mood to deal with stupid systems.

I recently got in touch with a friend I hadn’t seen since uni (the joys of Facebook), who commented that my Arabic must be fluent by now. I explained that my Arabic is good, but not fluent, primarily because I’m female and as such it is impossible to get into a situation where it could become fluent, without getting married (becoming a professional belly dancer excepted). He expressed his sadness that I must have been subject to sexism over my time here.

It did (and does) make me laugh to think about sexism in Egypt. It’s not in the least bit funny, and it has affected me greatly, but so ingrained is sexism here, that I don’t even consider it as such: it’s just (a big) part of the culture. Sexism is almost too lofty of an intellectual concept to be applied! I’d put it more in terms of sexual harassment and then add that it is on a daily basis - almost every time you step out the door.

It’s strange what we can get used to.

This has nothing whatsoever to do with Egypt other than the fact that I’m sitting in the country watching the rugby.

Can someone please tell me what is up with the Scottish rugby strip? Can’t they just wear blue? There is an increasing amount of lilac appearing. I know that the thistle is our national flower, but the last time I checked it was purple, not lilac.

I’m not a cricket fan, but a couple of times I’ve seen the Saltires playing one day internationals and their strip has always looked great - a dark royal blue with a cross on. A group pic of them shows how striking one version of their strip is.

Also, since when is our flag navy blue? Our weather is so dismal, a blue resembling our flag would be a little less dreary.

Another peeve is how a lot of rugby shirts (not just Scotland) are beginning to look as if their inspiration came from spiderman suits. Do rugby players really need special designs on their shoulders to make them look bigger? I’m all for advances in technology but different colour panels are not going to make the players play any better.

Anyway, it’s 26 mins into the Scotland New Zealand match and I’d just like to applaud the Blue’s B team who probably never imagined they’d be taking on the All Blacks in the World Cup.