Fuschia highlights and pomegranate petals

From our roof top columbarium I can hear the sounds of birds, children crying, laughing, playing, and general village ruckus.  The hazy sky drifts over the rough and bare, stony landscape - all white stone and grey-green of the olive trees.  We have had two showers of rain here, which has excited the birds and freshened the air.  Its now cool, and I would describe the scent of the air but I smell like fruit salad and it overpowers everything else.

This morning in desperate need of a femme session I dragged C. with me to the local gathering of the banot yerushalayim at a pink painted salon for Only Women.  C. was despatched once I discovered I could indeed have something done!  I saw an art film once about a Lebanese hairdressing salon and the lives and dramas of the hairdressers and their clients - so I was intrigued at any rate at whether I would recognise similarities (though I was definitely in desperate need of salvation where beautiful hair is concerned).  In the space of a whirlwind, the maternal hairdresser, short, pretty, blond streaked hair, and the ubiquitous black suede tracksuit had whisked me into a chair and was quite determined to re-dye my hair dark brown and add fuschia highlights (for free).  My protestations were brushed aside!  Needless to say, I now sport fuschia highlights and have a classic Jordanian hair style.  I feel like Queen Rania (which is high praise indeed).

Many of the women come into the salon donned in black from head to toe, but once inside its all off, and there are highlights, perms, cuts, babies crying, waxing in the arabic style and eyebrow styling all enhanced with the local gossip.  I was instructed not to talk, and she would fix the travesty of my last haircut and colour!  It was easy to see what a close relationship the women had here.  Everyone knows each other, families, relatives, children.  The group gathers its strength in this powerful place.  It was a lovely experience though walking home alone up the lane I felt my new hair was being assessed by the entire community.  The attention did leave me momentarily when some irate shopkeeper pelted a young boy with a broccoli head.

C. isn't feeling well.  He has weathered the stress of the last few days less externally than I.  But we are hoping that by morning we can travel across the border and see the sun set over Petra and her ancient nabatean ruins.  And so, our enforced stay in this beautiful land continues to yield the promise of pomegranates.  Even now, their red petals are beginning to open and Ithaca does not seem so far away.