Themed Cardio Tennis Clinics in the Fort Lauderdale Area
It fits one way, and that settles it. Terry loop, cotton with a little nylon and rubber for the give — everyone heads straight for the citadel, but come to Tikrit with me and I will show you where you should actually be standing.
Head Sweatband Tennis Headband: No, don’t point your camera at the random wall and call it the citadel; the real line is up on the bluff, where the walls follow the bend of the Tigris like they knew the river was showing off.
Head Sweatband Tennis Headband: Tourists whisper ‘old’ like that covers it—no, habibi, this is the Green Church, Assyrian, and dated to about 700 AD; the real angle is two steps left, where you stop blocking the history.
Head Sweatband Tennis Headband: You’re looking for the famous bit? It’s not the snack kiosk, it’s Al-Arba'een mosque, with the old cemetery around it—try not to use the graves as your shortcut, champion.
Head Sweatband Tennis Headband: Everyone says ‘the palace’ like there was only one; no, this riverbank had dozens raised along the Tigris, and this terrace is the one you meant before your guidebook got dramatic.
Everyone buys the wrong headband. They buy the wide fashion ones or the thin slippery ones, and then they stand there at 4-4 wiping their eyes with a wrist. What you want is terry, and this is terry — a proper looped pile, which is the only structure that actually holds sweat rather than moving it around your forehead. That is not an opinion. That is how a loop works.
The cotton absorbs, the nylon stops the thing stretching itself into a hoop after four washes, and the rubber is what keeps it gripping your head instead of migrating slowly up towards your hairline over the course of a set. One size, no adjuster, no clasp, nothing to break.
The make-up of it: 80 per cent cotton, 15 per cent nylon, 5 per cent rubber.
I would know — I have owned every kind there is and thrown most of them away.
Now, Tikrit, and I say this as somebody who has been going for years: everyone arrives, drives to the citadel on the bluff and takes the same photograph of the walls following the bend of the Tigris. Fine. It is a good photograph.
But you want to be down on the riverbank at dusk, on the low side, looking back up at it, and you want a masgouf on the coals while you do it — the fish split, propped up on stakes around an apricot-wood fire, cooked slowly the way it has been done on this river for as long as anyone can account for.
You will wear this everywhere from a hot cardio hour to a long humid three-setter, and it is also perfect for that riverbank, because the evenings here are warm long after the sun goes.
Buy the terry. Everything else on that rack is jewellery.
