Shorter hair, better Spanish

This is the view from my face most mornings from about 6am. It's blurry because I don't have my glasses on yet. It's effectively my daily friendly reminder that the cat is empty.

Somewhere along Ted's six-day odyssey to Spain the evil shipmasters chopped off some of his mane, presumably because it was covered in poop. It got me thinking that it was about time I got a haircut, though not for the same reason. The outcome was not unexpected – I left the barber's with shorter hair than I had when I went in – though there was a bonus: I got a pretty good lesson in Spanish. (So far my Basque stops at hello and goodbye.)

To date, the vast majority of our exchanges in this delightful language have been at the checkout, at the bar, at the shops and, on one occasion, with a supermarket security guard, who told me, I think, that my sack was too small. Each of these exchanges is useful but none is long enough to feel like you've had any kind of significant practice that doesn't involve drinking something.

This is the view from my face most mornings from about 6am. It's blurry because I don't have my glasses on yet. It's effectively my daily friendly reminder that the cat is empty.

Somewhere along Ted's six-day odyssey to Spain the evil shipmasters chopped off some of his mane, presumably because it was covered in poop. It got me thinking that it was about time I got a haircut, though not for the same reason. The outcome was not unexpected – I left the barber's with shorter hair than I had when I went in – though there was a bonus: I got a pretty good lesson in Spanish. (So far my Basque stops at hello and goodbye.)

To date, the vast majority of our exchanges in this delightful language have been at the checkout, at the bar, at the shops and, on one occasion, with a supermarket security guard, who told me, I think, that my sack was too small. Each of these exchanges is useful but none is long enough to feel like you've had any kind of significant practice that doesn't involve drinking something.

This is the view from my face most mornings from about 6am. It's blurry because I don't have my glasses on yet. It's effectively my daily friendly reminder that the cat is empty.

Somewhere along Ted's six-day odyssey to Spain the evil shipmasters chopped off some of his mane, presumably because it was covered in poop. It got me thinking that it was about time I got a haircut, though not for the same reason. The outcome was not unexpected – I left the barber's with shorter hair than I had when I went in – though there was a bonus: I got a pretty good lesson in Spanish. (So far my Basque stops at hello and goodbye.)

To date, the vast majority of our exchanges in this delightful language have been at the checkout, at the bar, at the shops and, on one occasion, with a supermarket security guard, who told me, I think, that my sack was too small. Each of these exchanges is useful but none is long enough to feel like you've had any kind of significant practice that doesn't involve drinking something.

In Donostia-San Sebastián there's a men's barber shop on just about every block, usually next to a baseball emporium or something equally out of left field. I stuck my head in the door and met a young bloke with a perfect beard occupying an impeccably clean and tidy barber shop. His scissors and clippers were trimmed with gold and the chair was as grand as a dentist's. We ain't at JustCutz anymore, El Toto.

I clearly and confidently asked him in Spanish if he could cut my head. 

Being from Morocco, this guy speaks Arabic, French and Spanish – but no English. I therefore expected a rather quiet session, which is usually fine by me. At least I was able to say that I don't speak much Spanish, sorry, that I was from Australia where we don't know many people who speak Spanish, so it's very difficult to get by here but we do OK. I might have also said that my female coffee table was very well and we have a new phone booth.

But it's probably the longest string of phrases I can currently cobble together.

But after he'd begun clipping he tried on a few simple phrases of his own – and to my surprise I was able to understand – not all of them by any stretch but enough to get the gist of what he was saying. It helped that there was no one else in the shop.

Do I live around here? Yes, close to here in Fuenterrabia Street.

How long have I been there? Seven weeks; since February.

Will large fish ... something ... moss in the hovercraft ... unwell but tall? Yes, exactly.

I reckon in six or seven more years I'll be speaking like a local, so long as that local is a six-year-old with a great new haircut.

Hasta luego.