GO LOCAL! The Haircut Edition

I'm tempted to use the Scottish term "wynd" to describe the alley, but Edinburgh has too many romantic associations, at least in my head.  It's a space between two city low-rises, connecting two N-S roads, a passageway almost wide enough for two Thais to pass without turning sideways.  Or for one motorbike to come roaring down.  God help you if you're not near one of the shophouses cut into the S side.
Based on the foot, bike, ball, dog, cat, and rat prints, plus a number of splats I try not to think about, the cement walkway was poured without warning, either posted or in advance.
None of the shops are especially remarkable: a couple of tailors, a couple of cosmetic suppliers, a couple of places that set out vats of curry and fish reek sour and pungent enough to kill even my interest.  And there are beauty shops staffed by ladies--actual ladies--doing each other up.

It's too minor a place to be known generally, even by Thais.  I found it when a motorbike came roar out of it and almost plowed me over.  I had been passing it for 6 months without paying any mind or even recognizing it as a through-way, commercial venue, passable, habitable, or simply accessible.
Were it not for the motor bike, I doubt I would've ever looked that direction.  If I had, and really paid attention, I would've seen a wall where the passage dog-legs, about 3 metres back.
Suffice to say, they don't get much through traffic.
Especially with blond hair and pink skin.

I figured it would be a great place for a haircut: get the head wash and scrub and full beautician-fussing-over.  And not that expensive.

Despite being so inconspicuous, the hallway has constant activity: kids playing ball and bike back and forth, their parents on motorbikes, and the rolling waves of the gossip continuum.
The first and the last--kids and the gossipers--would pass abruptly and unknowingly into view, glimpse the farang, and bolt offstage.  In retrospect, this created ripples of rumors and sensation that enervated anyone and everyone who witnessed them to find an excuse to walk by and say hello or simply peek in to see if the sensation was really true.

Yes, there was the shampoo with fantastic head massage from a beautiful beautician.  And the constant undertone of the rumormill surging past the window.
It was nice, and it cost half as much as comparable deals co workers have mentioned.
Still, it was enough to invigorate my "GO LOCAL" sentiments: downstairs, the nice Korean lady who's a little bit too aged and independent to bother with self-beautification will spend a quarter of the time undergoing a tiny fraction of the drama for less than a third of the cost and the same result.