So tuition is now firmly underway, and time is definitely moving a lot faster. Hard to believe that I’ve been living here for almost a month already! Looking around and from speaking to people, I think it’s actually starting to hit home to most of us that being at university isn’t just about drinking and going out. Who knew?
Time passing will bring different kinds of challenges in every sense of uni life. I know I’m not exactly end of third year, but hey ho. For a start, you’re actually learning again, and that can be an issue in itself! But as previously alluded to in the first post of this little series, the flatmates are there to help each other get through everything that can possibly be thrown at you. Which is always handy as a nice safety net.
But one particular path that we all must cross at some point is the subject of hair. Being the son of a hairdresser, paying for a haircut is something I’ve never had to worry about, nor have I had the dilemma of watching a stranger cut my hair completely contrarily to how I asked it to be done. But I decided to be the ‘guinea pig’, and be the first one from the hall to try the local barber.
I had a thought to myself over the summer, and worked out a little philosophy for myself to live by: If you can afford to pay a little bit more for something, do it. Because nine times out of ten, you’re more than likely to be better off than when you pay half the price for something that will only last half as long/be half as good in general.
Being a student, I now almost see it as my duty to be perpetually skint. So I decided to go against my own advice and choose the cheapest local barber I could find. Bad idea. In short, I essentially paid a distinctly reasonable (I think, I’ve never known the price of a trim!) £9.50 for a very friendly Italian man to ignore how I asked for my hair to be done, and for him to quite literally attack my hair with clippers and scissors for half an hour. It would’ve been less than that had he not decided to have a tea break half way through to chat to his mate, while I sat in the chair scared for my life… I had asked for the top of my hair to be trimmed very slightly but even my trademark quiffe has now disappeared! I’ll now spend what I saved on a hat for the foreseeable future, methinks. On top of that, after the haircut he decided to slap some product in what was left of my hair, and slicked it back to make me look that bit more sleazy. Cheers, Claudio…
Weekends in halls are a decidedly different experience from that of midweek; particularly during the day. From my side anyway, being around 300 miles away from home doesn’t exactly lend itself to simply popping home for the weekend, like most of my flatmates can do. Nor does it exactly fill any friends from home with an immediate urge to come and see me up north either, which is completely understandable. I would be lying if I said that it isn’t a lot quieter at weekends, especially when there’s no football on that we can go and watch! But I suppose that’s just part and parcel of living away from home. There are good days and there are not so good days, but once again that’s when friends come in handy! (I know, I even made myself cringe with that one…)
With this newfound independence of living away from home, I have discovered one thing: I’m terrible at ironing, washing, and just generally keeping everything tidy in my room. Who knew that my parents would actually be right about me being useless at domestic everyday tasks? You can’t fault them for trying to teach me but there’s only so much they could do… I guess I’m just going to have to step up a bit. This could go one of two ways…