This topic needs to be retitled “Let’s Have a Moan About the Small Increase in the Price of a Haircut in Thailand.” Nearly as thrilling a discussion as the topic about Viking pants.

3 hours ago, JensenZ said:

You've been to 66 provinces, but you've only seen one roadside shoe repairman? You must have travelled around Thailand with blinders on.

He has never ever actually even been to Thaialnd,gets all his info of the interent. Make beleive fantasist.

3 hours ago, carlyai said:

One football day walked into the inside bar area and there was a naked girl playing pool

Yes, this was a frequent event.

These days I go have a beer with Brian at Passion to watch the young ladies playing naked pool.

2 minutes ago, JT25 said:

He has never ever actually even been to Thaialnd,gets all his info of the interent. Make beleive fantasist.

You can't even spell internet or Thailand lol

3 minutes ago, JT25 said:

He has never ever actually even been to Thaialnd,gets all his info of the interent. Make beleive fantasist.

Some photos

9 hours ago, Rockyroad said:

I like the old stuff. Rustic gyms. Mom and pop diners. 3rd class trains. Wooden bungalows. Bamboo beach front seating in a restaurant. A 50 baht haircut. 10 baht ferry ride.

Will this be lost in future?

A haircut in Bangkok is now 300 baht. Modern train station. Cafes with 150 baht coffees. 500 baht modern gyms.

New school ain't cool.

60 baht haircut - made perfectly.

Leo large in a good thai restaurant (AC etc.) - yes, I sit when I eat - 80 baht.

"Big" service bike (gear and engine oil) - 240 baht.

"Small" service bike - 150 baht.

Coffee / Cappucino hot while I wait for the motorbike service - 45 Baht.

What exactly is your problem? Bangkok maybe?

Stop complaining. Or change your location...

Edit: Service made by official Honda dealer...

Edited June 22Jun 22 by Schoggibueb

Some great days on the road

7 hours ago, Rockyroad said:

There is a shoe repair man in Bangkok on the side of the road. Shoe repairs 50 to 100 baht inatead of buying new shoes for 4500 baht.

"in Bangkok on the side of the road."

Is it possible to be any less specific than that.?

1 hour ago, saintdomingo said:

"in Bangkok on the side of the road."

Is it possible to be any less specific than that.?

You know the one he means. It's in Bangkok. On the side of the road. You know. That one that charges 50-100 baht. It's by the side of the road. FFS, surely you know the one he's talking about. By the side of the road.

10 hours ago, papa al said:

absolutely not.

Prices will never rise.

Soon enough they will even start going down.

It’s been like that for centuries.

12 hours ago, josephbloggs said:

You could have just looked at the OP's name.

Which one? She’s got 9.

17 hours ago, Rockyroad said:

I like the old stuff. Rustic gyms. Mom and pop diners. 3rd class trains. Wooden bungalows. Bamboo beach front seating in a restaurant. A 50 baht haircut. 10 baht ferry ride.

Will this be lost in future?

A haircut in Bangkok is now 300 baht. Modern train station. Cafes with 150 baht coffees. 500 baht modern gyms.

New school ain't cool.

Earn more money.

Can still get a haircut in bkk for 100 thb btw.

6 hours ago, saintdomingo said:

"in Bangkok on the side of the road."

Is it possible to be any less specific than that.?

Near some shops. Should narrow it down for you :-)

Nothing is more old skool than this

51 minutes ago, Celsius said:

Nothing is more old skool than this

Halfway through I needed to cut bait after I threw up a little bit in my mouth. I rather be forced to eat 100 toasties.

Edited June 22Jun 22 by BilllyGOAT

10 hours ago, saintdomingo said:

"in Bangkok on the side of the road."

Is it possible to be any less specific than that.?

It's just down the street from the first traffic light, making it easy to find.

2 hours ago, Celsius said:

Nothing is more old skool than this

Your choice to rock a man bun shows your style,

4 hours ago, FritsSikkink said:

Earn more money.

Can still get a haircut in bkk for 100 thb btw.

A mate got his cut in a place near Lumpini mrt for 80 baht a few weeks ago.

The place I go to in Soi 55 was 120 for years, then last year went to 140 and earlier this year to 150.

Just remembered the one near Lumpini he said was in Jusmag.

Yes, Thailand is your private zoo, and the country, along with its 70 million or so souls, should remain exactly as you like it, rather than become what Thai people choose for themselves. What right do they have to not remain as you like it?

10 minutes ago, Wingate said:

Yes, Thailand is your private zoo, and the country, along with its 70 million or so souls, should remain exactly as you like it, rather than become what Thai people choose for themselves. What right do they have to not remain as you like it?

No kidding, I occasionally miss the old days back home, but life goes on.

15 hours ago, SAFETY FIRST said:

Yes, this was a frequent event.

These days I go have a beer with Brian at Passion to watch the young ladies playing naked pool.

I may start drinking alcohol again

On 6/22/2026 at 7:46 AM, Rockyroad said:

I like the old stuff. Rustic gyms. Mom and pop diners. 3rd class trains. Wooden bungalows. Bamboo beach front seating in a restaurant. A 50 baht haircut. 10 baht ferry ride.

Will this be lost in future?

A haircut in Bangkok is now 300 baht. Modern train station. Cafes with 150 baht coffees. 500 baht modern gyms.

New school ain't cool.

You're not old school, you've always been a Cheap Charlie, I think....🤫

bug

Edited June 23Jun 23 by ujay

15 minutes ago, ujay said:

You're not old school, you've always been a Cheap Charlie, I think....🤫

Same as Warren then

https://finance.yahoo.com/news/bill-gates-recalls-warren-buffett-203108944.html

23 hours ago, BilllyGOAT said:

Soon enough they will even start going down.

It’s been like that for centuries.

you are truly a wise man.

currency debase

ment is a myth

Copied from alikely AI slop on Facebook

THE POST-NUT HOSTAGE CRISIS: THE EXPAT EVICTION PARALYSIS

It’s 11:30 AM in a one-bedroom condo on Pratamnak Hill. Sitting on the absolute edge of the sofa, fully dressed in a ironed Ralph Lauren polo, laced-up New Balance sneakers, and clutching his car keys, is Arthur.

Arthur is 34. He is currently 20 minutes late for an appointment with a real estate agent to view a new duplex.

Lying horizontally across Arthur’s king-size bed is Nan. Nan is wearing Arthur’s oversized Calvin Klein T-shirt, scrolling through high-volume Thai TikTok, and waiting for a Grab driver to deliver a hyper-spicy Som Tam she ordered using Arthur’s iPad.

Arthur desperately wants Nan to leave. But Arthur suffers from a fatal, incurable Western disease: Middle-Class Politeness.

The Micro-Paralysis: The Hinting Game

In Leeds or Munich, when a man wants a woman to vacate his apartment the next morning, he deploys The Hints. He makes loud, exaggerated sighing noises. He starts washing a single coffee mug with extreme, performative aggression. He rubs his hands together and says cheerful, terrifying things like: “Right then! Massive day ahead!”

Arthur has been sighing for forty-five minutes. He has opened and closed the balcony curtains three times.

What Arthur’s Western brain fails to compute is that to Nan’s hyper-calibrated nervous system, a farang sighing is just standard background white noise, sitting at the exact same frequency as the Daikin air conditioner. She doesn’t process hints; she processes logistics.

Instead of walking over to the mattress and saying: "Nan, my Grab is downstairs, put your sandals on, it is time to go," Arthur is currently standing in his own hallway, secretly typing a frantic, sweating post onto the ASEAN NOW expat forum titled:

[URGENT] How to politely ask a local girl to vacate the premises without causing a loss of face?

PART II: THE 30-DAY WHITE KNIGHT EXPIRY

While Arthur’s morning paralysis is a mild comedy of manners, two miles away in a high-rise on Central Road, we find the much darker, far more expensive version of this syndrome: The "Accidental Annexation."

Meet Simon.

Simon is 41. He is a mid-level logistics manager from Rotterdam. Four weeks ago, Simon committed the ultimate unforced error of Pattaya nightlife. He didn't just let his short-time guest stay the morning; he formally annexed her.

On Morning 1, the girl—let's call her May—made him a fried egg and folded his T-shirts. Simon, flooded with a lethal cocktail of post-nut oxytocin and pure Western Savior Hubris, looked at her across the kitchen counter and issued the Knight’s Decree:

“You don't belong in that place. Pack up your apartment, move in here. I’ll cover what you make at the bar, you can focus on yourself, and we’ll build a real life.”

In Week 1, Simon felt like an absolute titan of morality. He had extracted a fragile flower from the neon concrete matrix. He bought her silk pajamas; they ordered sushi on Grab; he was a literal deity.

Fast Forward to Day 30:

The oxytocin has completely cleared out of Simon’s bloodstream, washed away like mud down a Pattaya storm drain. The reality of the asset has settled in.

May doesn't want to "focus on herself" or study English. May wants to sit on Simon’s 60,000-baht leather sofa for seven hours a day on a loud, speakerphone Line video call with her sister in Chaiyaphum, while aggressively peeling green mangoes with his expensive Japanese chef's knife. The TV is permanently locked to a Thai ghost soap opera. The kitchen smells irrevocably of fermented fish paste (Poo Plara).

Simon realizes the cold corporate truth: he didn't "rescue a maiden." He signed an open-ended, non-compete financial retainer with a roommate he has zero common interests with.

The Knight’s Cowardice: The Pivot to Sabotage

Because Simon identifies as a "Good Guy," his psychological firewall strictly forbids him from sitting May down and saying the mechanical truth: “The biological novelty that justified this cash burn has expired. Please gather your four Shopee delivery boxes and leave.”

That would make him the Villain. And Western Knights cannot survive being the Villain.

So, Simon resorts to the most pathetic escape hatch in the expat playbook: The Manufactured Force Majeure. He can’t dump her, so he tries to force her into naturally migrating to another habitat.

Tactic 1: The Micro-Austerity. He starts turning the Daikin aircon off at 6:00 AM. He stops buying the imported Shine Muscat grapes. He buys the 55-baht big bottle of Leo instead of Singha. He tries to make the environment slightly too inhospitable for her species to thrive.

Tactic 2: The Existential Martyr. He takes her to the beach at sunset, looks deeply into the grey water, and delivers a tragic monologue: "I have too many dark demons inside me, Teerak. I'm a broken man. You deserve a pure Thai man who can take you to the temple and give you a real family. I am holding you back."

Tactic 3: The Fake HMRC Audit. He opens his Wise app, points to a totally random automated security notification, and claims the European banking authorities have temporarily frozen his assets due to an international tax discrepancy, hoping a perceived drop in liquidity triggers her automatic self-preservation protocol.

The Isan Reality Check:

May listens to Simon talk about his dark European demons. She doesn't offer emotional validation. She doesn't call a couples therapist.

She silently opens her Line chat with the head Mamasan of the Soi 6 bar she walked out of thirty days ago, and types a single sentence:

"The farang’s software is broken. He's doing the 'no money' face. Put my bar stool back in the shade for tomorrow afternoon."

The entrance is a fairy tale; the exit is an audit.

52 minutes ago, Celsius said:

Copied from alikely AI slop on Facebook

THE POST-NUT HOSTAGE CRISIS: THE EXPAT EVICTION PARALYSIS

It’s 11:30 AM in a one-bedroom condo on Pratamnak Hill. Sitting on the absolute edge of the sofa, fully dressed in a ironed Ralph Lauren polo, laced-up New Balance sneakers, and clutching his car keys, is Arthur.

Arthur is 34. He is currently 20 minutes late for an appointment with a real estate agent to view a new duplex.

Lying horizontally across Arthur’s king-size bed is Nan. Nan is wearing Arthur’s oversized Calvin Klein T-shirt, scrolling through high-volume Thai TikTok, and waiting for a Grab driver to deliver a hyper-spicy Som Tam she ordered using Arthur’s iPad.

Arthur desperately wants Nan to leave. But Arthur suffers from a fatal, incurable Western disease: Middle-Class Politeness.

The Micro-Paralysis: The Hinting Game

In Leeds or Munich, when a man wants a woman to vacate his apartment the next morning, he deploys The Hints. He makes loud, exaggerated sighing noises. He starts washing a single coffee mug with extreme, performative aggression. He rubs his hands together and says cheerful, terrifying things like: “Right then! Massive day ahead!”

Arthur has been sighing for forty-five minutes. He has opened and closed the balcony curtains three times.

What Arthur’s Western brain fails to compute is that to Nan’s hyper-calibrated nervous system, a farang sighing is just standard background white noise, sitting at the exact same frequency as the Daikin air conditioner. She doesn’t process hints; she processes logistics.

Instead of walking over to the mattress and saying: "Nan, my Grab is downstairs, put your sandals on, it is time to go," Arthur is currently standing in his own hallway, secretly typing a frantic, sweating post onto the ASEAN NOW expat forum titled:

[URGENT] How to politely ask a local girl to vacate the premises without causing a loss of face?

PART II: THE 30-DAY WHITE KNIGHT EXPIRY

While Arthur’s morning paralysis is a mild comedy of manners, two miles away in a high-rise on Central Road, we find the much darker, far more expensive version of this syndrome: The "Accidental Annexation."

Meet Simon.

Simon is 41. He is a mid-level logistics manager from Rotterdam. Four weeks ago, Simon committed the ultimate unforced error of Pattaya nightlife. He didn't just let his short-time guest stay the morning; he formally annexed her.

On Morning 1, the girl—let's call her May—made him a fried egg and folded his T-shirts. Simon, flooded with a lethal cocktail of post-nut oxytocin and pure Western Savior Hubris, looked at her across the kitchen counter and issued the Knight’s Decree:

“You don't belong in that place. Pack up your apartment, move in here. I’ll cover what you make at the bar, you can focus on yourself, and we’ll build a real life.”

In Week 1, Simon felt like an absolute titan of morality. He had extracted a fragile flower from the neon concrete matrix. He bought her silk pajamas; they ordered sushi on Grab; he was a literal deity.

Fast Forward to Day 30:

The oxytocin has completely cleared out of Simon’s bloodstream, washed away like mud down a Pattaya storm drain. The reality of the asset has settled in.

May doesn't want to "focus on herself" or study English. May wants to sit on Simon’s 60,000-baht leather sofa for seven hours a day on a loud, speakerphone Line video call with her sister in Chaiyaphum, while aggressively peeling green mangoes with his expensive Japanese chef's knife. The TV is permanently locked to a Thai ghost soap opera. The kitchen smells irrevocably of fermented fish paste (Poo Plara).

Simon realizes the cold corporate truth: he didn't "rescue a maiden." He signed an open-ended, non-compete financial retainer with a roommate he has zero common interests with.

The Knight’s Cowardice: The Pivot to Sabotage

Because Simon identifies as a "Good Guy," his psychological firewall strictly forbids him from sitting May down and saying the mechanical truth: “The biological novelty that justified this cash burn has expired. Please gather your four Shopee delivery boxes and leave.”

That would make him the Villain. And Western Knights cannot survive being the Villain.

So, Simon resorts to the most pathetic escape hatch in the expat playbook: The Manufactured Force Majeure. He can’t dump her, so he tries to force her into naturally migrating to another habitat.

Tactic 1: The Micro-Austerity. He starts turning the Daikin aircon off at 6:00 AM. He stops buying the imported Shine Muscat grapes. He buys the 55-baht big bottle of Leo instead of Singha. He tries to make the environment slightly too inhospitable for her species to thrive.

Tactic 2: The Existential Martyr. He takes her to the beach at sunset, looks deeply into the grey water, and delivers a tragic monologue: "I have too many dark demons inside me, Teerak. I'm a broken man. You deserve a pure Thai man who can take you to the temple and give you a real family. I am holding you back."

Tactic 3: The Fake HMRC Audit. He opens his Wise app, points to a totally random automated security notification, and claims the European banking authorities have temporarily frozen his assets due to an international tax discrepancy, hoping a perceived drop in liquidity triggers her automatic self-preservation protocol.

The Isan Reality Check:

May listens to Simon talk about his dark European demons. She doesn't offer emotional validation. She doesn't call a couples therapist.

She silently opens her Line chat with the head Mamasan of the Soi 6 bar she walked out of thirty days ago, and types a single sentence:

"The farang’s software is broken. He's doing the 'no money' face. Put my bar stool back in the shade for tomorrow afternoon."

The entrance is a fairy tale; the exit is an audit.

What is all that?

2 minutes ago, Rockyroad said:

What is all that?

Stuff

52 minutes ago, Celsius said:

Copied from alikely AI slop on Facebook

THE POST-NUT HOSTAGE CRISIS: THE EXPAT EVICTION PARALYSIS

It’s 11:30 AM in a one-bedroom condo on Pratamnak Hill. Sitting on the absolute edge of the sofa, fully dressed in a ironed Ralph Lauren polo, laced-up New Balance sneakers, and clutching his car keys, is Arthur.

Arthur is 34. He is currently 20 minutes late for an appointment with a real estate agent to view a new duplex.

Lying horizontally across Arthur’s king-size bed is Nan. Nan is wearing Arthur’s oversized Calvin Klein T-shirt, scrolling through high-volume Thai TikTok, and waiting for a Grab driver to deliver a hyper-spicy Som Tam she ordered using Arthur’s iPad.

Arthur desperately wants Nan to leave. But Arthur suffers from a fatal, incurable Western disease: Middle-Class Politeness.

The Micro-Paralysis: The Hinting Game

In Leeds or Munich, when a man wants a woman to vacate his apartment the next morning, he deploys The Hints. He makes loud, exaggerated sighing noises. He starts washing a single coffee mug with extreme, performative aggression. He rubs his hands together and says cheerful, terrifying things like: “Right then! Massive day ahead!”

Arthur has been sighing for forty-five minutes. He has opened and closed the balcony curtains three times.

What Arthur’s Western brain fails to compute is that to Nan’s hyper-calibrated nervous system, a farang sighing is just standard background white noise, sitting at the exact same frequency as the Daikin air conditioner. She doesn’t process hints; she processes logistics.

Instead of walking over to the mattress and saying: "Nan, my Grab is downstairs, put your sandals on, it is time to go," Arthur is currently standing in his own hallway, secretly typing a frantic, sweating post onto the ASEAN NOW expat forum titled:

[URGENT] How to politely ask a local girl to vacate the premises without causing a loss of face?

PART II: THE 30-DAY WHITE KNIGHT EXPIRY

While Arthur’s morning paralysis is a mild comedy of manners, two miles away in a high-rise on Central Road, we find the much darker, far more expensive version of this syndrome: The "Accidental Annexation."

Meet Simon.

Simon is 41. He is a mid-level logistics manager from Rotterdam. Four weeks ago, Simon committed the ultimate unforced error of Pattaya nightlife. He didn't just let his short-time guest stay the morning; he formally annexed her.

On Morning 1, the girl—let's call her May—made him a fried egg and folded his T-shirts. Simon, flooded with a lethal cocktail of post-nut oxytocin and pure Western Savior Hubris, looked at her across the kitchen counter and issued the Knight’s Decree:

“You don't belong in that place. Pack up your apartment, move in here. I’ll cover what you make at the bar, you can focus on yourself, and we’ll build a real life.”

In Week 1, Simon felt like an absolute titan of morality. He had extracted a fragile flower from the neon concrete matrix. He bought her silk pajamas; they ordered sushi on Grab; he was a literal deity.

Fast Forward to Day 30:

The oxytocin has completely cleared out of Simon’s bloodstream, washed away like mud down a Pattaya storm drain. The reality of the asset has settled in.

May doesn't want to "focus on herself" or study English. May wants to sit on Simon’s 60,000-baht leather sofa for seven hours a day on a loud, speakerphone Line video call with her sister in Chaiyaphum, while aggressively peeling green mangoes with his expensive Japanese chef's knife. The TV is permanently locked to a Thai ghost soap opera. The kitchen smells irrevocably of fermented fish paste (Poo Plara).

Simon realizes the cold corporate truth: he didn't "rescue a maiden." He signed an open-ended, non-compete financial retainer with a roommate he has zero common interests with.

The Knight’s Cowardice: The Pivot to Sabotage

Because Simon identifies as a "Good Guy," his psychological firewall strictly forbids him from sitting May down and saying the mechanical truth: “The biological novelty that justified this cash burn has expired. Please gather your four Shopee delivery boxes and leave.”

That would make him the Villain. And Western Knights cannot survive being the Villain.

So, Simon resorts to the most pathetic escape hatch in the expat playbook: The Manufactured Force Majeure. He can’t dump her, so he tries to force her into naturally migrating to another habitat.

Tactic 1: The Micro-Austerity. He starts turning the Daikin aircon off at 6:00 AM. He stops buying the imported Shine Muscat grapes. He buys the 55-baht big bottle of Leo instead of Singha. He tries to make the environment slightly too inhospitable for her species to thrive.

Tactic 2: The Existential Martyr. He takes her to the beach at sunset, looks deeply into the grey water, and delivers a tragic monologue: "I have too many dark demons inside me, Teerak. I'm a broken man. You deserve a pure Thai man who can take you to the temple and give you a real family. I am holding you back."

Tactic 3: The Fake HMRC Audit. He opens his Wise app, points to a totally random automated security notification, and claims the European banking authorities have temporarily frozen his assets due to an international tax discrepancy, hoping a perceived drop in liquidity triggers her automatic self-preservation protocol.

The Isan Reality Check:

May listens to Simon talk about his dark European demons. She doesn't offer emotional validation. She doesn't call a couples therapist.

She silently opens her Line chat with the head Mamasan of the Soi 6 bar she walked out of thirty days ago, and types a single sentence:

"The farang’s software is broken. He's doing the 'no money' face. Put my bar stool back in the shade for tomorrow afternoon."

The entrance is a fairy tale; the exit is an audit.

What is all that?

2 minutes ago, Celsius said:

Stuff

Love your work. Best sense of humour on here.