We hire a car and guide from our hotel in Kathmandu and, commencing at 8am, make the 6h drive to Pokhara 200km away. The drive is scenic and we pass several rivers which flow emerald green or milky white. The roads take us through a dozen small hamlets as it winds through the Himalayan foothills, verdant and full from the rainy season just past.

We arrive in Pokhara to warm weather and clear skies and, after checking into our hotel, wander the streets. Pokhara is built around lake Phewa, a large body of water fed by Himalayan tributaries. It's picturesque with its mountainous backdrop, and we can't resist a lakeside break, my mom sampling the excellent Nepali tea, and two Ghorka beers for my father and I (despite the name, this beer is timid stuff and we ditch it for German fare as soon as we get the chance).

Phewa lake at dusk

There's a distinctly backpacker vibe here which reminds me of Khao San road in Bangkok, minus the bedlam. Street vendors sell chicken skewers and roasted corn while fanning the coals, boutiques offer mandalas, bronze Buddhas, and knock-off North Face gear (Pokhara being the last stop before mountain trekking), and bars and cafés that prepare all manner of cuisine bar Nepali are patronized by Western tourists decked out in the kind of local clothing that will never see the light of day the moment they return home. It's all a bit cheesy, but the climate is nice and the beer is cold, and one only need look up to the Annapurnas to feel their quiet power.

View from Sarangkot at sunrise. The town of Pokara is presided over by the mighty Annapurnas

During our three days here we visit the local sites including Sarangkot, which requires a 4am wakeup to watch as the morning sun sets fire to Annapurnas. It's all very dramatic, and even the two Chinese tourists on either side, loudly yapping away in their jabbering language couldn't ruin it for me. It was an amazing site to behold, and a camera can never do it justice.

However, my favorite experience of Pokhara was the barbershop. Every time my parents take a trip abroad, my dad makes a point of getting his haircut in a local establishment. He's done it in Lima, Recife, Merrakesh, St. Thomas and we both did it in Meixian, China, all those yeas ago. It often makes for a hairy adventure and at the very least an interesting anecdote when combing through past encounters and close shaves.

How many reflections do you see?

What made this particular exercise in grooming noteworthy was that it was the first time pops had gotten a cut that required him to lose his shirt. Playing along, he took it off and the barber, who couldn't have been more than 18 or 19, snapped the bib before draping it over his shirtless client. Using only scissors, a comb and some water, he gave my father a simple but meticulous haircut; all clean straight lines and cropped close to the skin. Price? R300 or CAD$3/£1.70.

Nothing gives my dad more pleasure than getting things for cheap and, enjoying the pampering, opted for head, neck and shoulder massage. This involves leaning forward in your chair and placing your forehead on the counter, cushioned by a towel. A canister containing oil is then taken from the shelf and poured over your forehead and scalp -a barber's benediction- before you're slapped, chopped, kneaded and twisted like a German pretzel, like so:

Much to my parents' disappointment, I didn't get a haircut

Afterwards, feeling fully restored, we repaired in haste to the hotel to wash out the oil and have dinner. As for my father, what did he think of the experience? Yes he was pleased, but was it a cut above? Head and shoulders above the rest? "Marrakech was better".

There you have it, get your haircut in Morrocco.

p.s. did I miss any puns?

Vignette

After leaving Pokhara we returned to Kathmandu for a night before flying out to Varanasi, our first stop on our north/south trajectory through India. Taking this flight with my parents I have learned this much: my father and I cannot share an arm rest. We bicker, reason with deliberately faulty logic, make mock threats of violence and jostle for prime elbow position like two children fighting over the top bunk. With a deep sigh, my mum takes the middle seat instantly restoring harmony (and presumably her sanity) at the cost of both her armrests. I knew there was a reason why I sent this woman a bouquet ever year.

A few pictures from Pokhara:

Pops getting his haircut in the back

Cocky and confident, our boatman worked the paddle like a pro