My Entire World Is Ten Minutes Away — And Someone Knows Someone

How I found friends, fried my hair and became emotionally attached to a laundry.

My world has become surprisingly small. I realise that sounds like the beginning of a concerned conversation. Someone should probably lean forward and ask whether I’m getting out enough.

I am. It’s just that most of the things I want to get out to are about ten minutes away. Coffee. Restaurants. The supermarket. The pharmacy. The beach. Friends. Home again when I’ve had enough.

Our neighbourhood in Da Nang has almost everything. Spas offer every conceivable massage and nail treatment. There are lovely cafés, restaurants and little shops selling one dish so well they don’t need to bother with a second.

There’s a convenience store, somewhere to get the washing done, and usually someone who knows where to find whatever else you need.

Finding things was the attraction at first. Then I started getting to know people, and a straightforward arrangement became considerably more complicated.

Now I have friendships, favourite places and emotional obligations involving my laundry.

Someone always knows someone

Whenever we settle somewhere for a while, I join the local Facebook and expat groups. This is where the knowledge lives. Someone has already asked your question, usually several times, and received enough answers to make you wish you hadn’t looked.

I save useful posts for later. This is an excellent system right up until later arrives, when I can never find them.

Then I look for groups and coffee meet-ups and make myself go. Despite what people might think, I’m shy around people I don’t know. Walking into that first gathering can be daunting. David would generally prefer to remain at home, so between us we could quite comfortably meet nobody.

But I’ve made some wonderful friends by turning up. People who will remain friends long after we move on. And somewhere between the introductions and the second coffee, someone says those magic words. To a question.

I have a guy. A computer guy. An air-conditioning guy. A toilet guy. You might not need him today, but you save his number. Unlike the Facebook post, you hope to be able to find this one during an emergency. Recommendations are incredibly useful. I would, however, advise a few follow-up questions.

Someone Knew Someone. My Hair Wishes They Didn’t.

I have long, wavy hair, and a lot of it. The weight pulls the curls out, so about once a year I like to have a body wave. Just a little movement. Nothing ambitious.

A recommendation for a hairdresser reached me through a friend’s friend’s mother-in-law’s cousin, or a similarly impressive chain of connections. It sounded thoroughly endorsed, although by then I wasn’t entirely sure who had actually been to the salon.

I messaged to ask whether they could do a body wave. Yes, of course. Because of my mobility issues, I also asked whether there were stairs. No, of course. Two reassuring answers. I booked.

When my driver pulled up, he said, This is for men only. No, I replied confidently. I have an appointment. Apparently, an appointment was all the evidence I required. The man actually looking at the premises could keep his observations to himself.

Inside, they sat me down, put a cape on me and then asked me to climb three flights of very narrow stairs to have my hair washed. I had specifically asked about stairs. Perhaps they thought I was enquiring whether they sold them.

Back downstairs, a trendy-looking girl pulled and stretched my hair, then announced it needed a treatment before she could do the wave. I asked the price and agreed. I neglected to ask how long it would take, a question I would have plenty of time to regret.

At home, the whole process takes about two hours. Almost four hours and three more trips up and down the stairs later, we were ready to start. Then they wheeled over a contraption that looked like an electric shock machine.

Wet sponges went around the rollers. Wires were plugged into each end. The machine was switched on. I asked what they were doing. They gave me a bottle of water. My question remained unanswered, but apparently, I would be well hydrated for whatever happened next.

Immediately my scalp began burning, and I could smell burning hair. My hair. I yelled. The girl grabbed a hand fan and started fanning my head. I had imagined the treatment might involve specialist equipment. I hadn’t expected the emergency response to be something you could buy at a souvenir stall. How long? I asked. Two hours.

We were already nearly four hours in. I’d come for a body wave and somehow acquired a full-day booking with stair climbing included. I texted David: If I’m not home by dinner, send help.

After another trip upstairs to wash my scorched hair some of which I’m fairly sure remained there I returned to the chair. Four people gathered around me. Beautiful! I was in tears. No, it’s not.”

They kept saying beautiful, apparently hoping four votes would overrule mine. My wavy hair was now a burnt frizz. Then came the final insult: they charged me more than I would have paid in Australia. Even the stairs I’d been told didn’t exist appeared to be part of the premium experience.

On my next visit to Australia, I showed my hairdresser the photographs. She dissolved into hysterical laughter, then assured me she could fix it.

It took a long time to trust another recommendation, but now I have Jimmy. He knows my hair, and I’ll follow him wherever he goes in Vietnam.

And next time a driver offers an opinion, he gets a proper hearing.

Familiar faces and complicated washing

Gradually, people become fixtures in your life. The café person. The receptionist. The neighbour whose name you missed when you first met and now can’t possibly ask again. There is a window for asking someone’s name. Miss it, and you can spend years greeting them with a resourceful Hello. Meanwhile, you know their dog’s name perfectly.

Next door to our apartment is a family business offering scooter hire, scooter repairs and laundry. An ambitious combination. David’s shorts and a carburettor can be dealt with under the same management.

The family matriarch sits in pride of place, overseeing everything. She usually looks very stern. I certainly wouldn’t challenge her, particularly while she has custody of my underwear.

The laundry quality varies according to who does the folding. Sometimes it’s beautifully neat. Other times, I suspect the mechanic has been recruited. His folding suggests he’s heard of the concept but remains unconvinced. Occasionally there’s an extra oil stain. You send your clothes in to have a mark removed and get a different one back.

After seven weeks in Australia, we returned to discover a new laundry a few doors up. Bright. Clean. Purpose-built. Lots of washers and dryers. No scooter parts.

I looked at it with the enthusiasm other people reserve for a sea-view apartment. I’m changing where we get the laundry done, I told David. A sensible decision. Our clothes deserved the opportunity to come home without having participated in an engine repair.

However, a few days later, the matriarch spotted me. She smiled, which was unusual enough to stop me. Then she called me over, took my hand and kept stroking it. Glad you are back, she said in her limited English. Miss you. Miss you. I think I even saw a tear.

Well, that was the end of my sensible decision. It’s very difficult to pursue improved laundry standards while someone is holding your hand and telling you she missed you.

She’d noticed we were gone. She was pleased we were back. I was touched, and my washing was staying exactly where it was.

Finding my people

When we first arrived, I needed a hairdresser and somewhere to get the washing done. I hadn’t expected either to become a relationship requiring serious commitment.

Now I have Jimmy, whom I’ll follow anywhere in Vietnam, and a laundry lady I can’t leave for a business three doors away.

So yes, ask around. Someone will know someone. Eventually, you’ll find your people.

Just listen to the driver. And if your laundry comes back with an oil stain, try not to get too attached to the woman in charge.

It severely limits your options. I’m brave enough to live overseas. I’m not brave enough to do that.

Love MyLifestyle #Sheridan-Leigh

Read my personal journal stories here.

About the Author:

Sheridan-Leigh is the passionate voice behind the MyLifestyle Blog, where life is celebrated with vibrant stories and insightful travel tips. With a deep love for slow travel, she believes in truly experiencing each destination, creating connections beyond the surface. Her blog is a blend of personal stories, expert advice, and a philosophy that life is for living to the fullest and is rich with opportunities for growth and adventure. Join Sheridan-Leigh as she shares her journey, inspiring others to embrace life, travel deeply, and live fully.