The Turkish Barber
by Scott Steward
July 7, 2022
It was hot outside. The sun heated the uneven stone tiles outside of the barber shop. I opened the door. I was greeted by the proprietor with “as salaam alaikum”. Peace be with you. I sat down in the red vinyl barber chair. There was a mirror in front of me that ran from the floor underneath the counter to the ceiling. The barber draped the smock around my shoulders. He stretched the white sanek around my neck to catch the loose hair. “Same thing as last time?”, he asked in broken English. I nodded.
The barber was in his late forties. He had black hair that he wore slicked back. His three-day stubble on his face was grey with shades of black. He wore a grey polo shirt and blue jeans.
He picked up a pair of clippers. He turned them on and there was a loud pop as the motor engaged the fine blades. He proceeded to use the clippers to cut off the hair around the sides of my head up to the crown. Pieces of black and grey floated down the barber’s cape and onto the floor. I stared at a long crack in the mirror under the counter. I pondered how that happened. Was it an earthquake? Perhaps it happened during installation.
The barber sprayed my hair with water. He took a comb and parted my hair to the side. Then he took some clippers and buzzed down a line on my head which would be my hard part. He followed up with a straight razor, scratching my scalp along the part line. This went on for some minutes.
The barber put down the straight razor and walked into the back of the shop. He emerged with a porcelain dish that held a clear glass cup of Turkish tea. He went outside of the shop to smoke. I enjoyed the tea with thoughts bouncing through my mind. The evils of the day. The beautiful dream I had the night before. The girl I walked away from. The boss I want to destroy.
I finished the tea and placed the empty cup and saucer on the counter. The barber returned. He took a comb and some scissors and cut the short hairs on the back and sides of my head. I watched the rapid scissors in the mirror. Snip snip snip. It was like a dance. The barber cut to a rhythm to a song perhaps only he could hear. He then placed some hair from the top of my head between his fingers and began to clip the long part of my hair. When he was done, he smoothed it out with his hand and used a comb to part it to the side.
He picked up the straight razor again and scratched the hair off from between my ear and scalp. Scritch scritch scritch. Then he did the same thing on the hairline around my temples. He performed his work in silence. There was no music in the shop. The street was busy outside the window. Cars jammed onto the street made their way as cars always do.
The barber brought me a second cup of chai tea. I enjoyed it while admiring the progress of my haircut in the mirror. When I finished the tea, I placed the cup and saucer on the counter. The barber returned. He reclined my chair. As I laid my head back on the headrest, he proceeded to use the clippers to trim my beard. I like it really short these days. Otherwise, I get all the Santa Claus comments. Although a good friend sent me a video message last week. “Last night I was over at a friend’s house”, he said, “and Afghanistan got brought up.” He told me he showed photos of me dressed as Santa. “That’s him?” she said, “The one in the red suit? The good-looking Santa?” My friend was laughing on the video. “That’s him. That’s sexy Santa.” He laughed. He told me that from now on his friend group back in North Dakota will always see me as sexy Santa. I suppose I see myself differently. Sexy Santa is a thing among younger women.
I closed my eyes and drifted along the edge of awake and dreams. The barber continued his work with my beard. The straight razor cleaned up edges. The feel of warm lather dabbed onto my face and neck. The light scraping of the straight razor. Cold steel against hot skin. There is so much trust that goes into allowing a stranger to hold a sharp instrument so close to the major arteries of one’s neck.
The barber placed the ornate porcelain cup and saucer on the counter. Turkish coffee this time. I held the cup and saucer carefully in my hands. I took a sip. It was strong. There was a hint of cardamom. The coffee was thick and creamy. I never take sugar in my tea or coffee. Mostly.
The wax was hot and stung my ear as the barber carefully spread it around the bottom and top and inside the canal. He walked over to the counter and dipped another wooden q tip into the molten green wax and spread it around my other ear. He then took his comb and deftly cut down my eyebrows. They get crazy. The barber nudged me back into a reclined position. I closed my eyes. I felt the cold wet of the black face mask as he applied it with expert fingertips. I drifted into a light sleep as the barber left the mask to dry.
I was in the desert. I saw both the sun and the moon approaching each other between the canopies. The canopies were camo netting. The dream changed. I was standing by a babbling brook. I was amazed at the crystal-clear water. White stones made up the bed of the stream as it wound its way along banks of green grass emerging from a forest. It was my grandparent’s place. A shallow depression on the ground where their house used to be before a fire consumed it along with any hope of reconciling my memories. The property was a vast acreage of forests and rolling hills. A pond sat calmly at the edge of the forest. The clouds reflecting upon its still black surface as they journeyed across a pale blue sky.
Minutes later the barber returned. He smelled like cigarette smoke. He sat me up in the chair. He grabbed the wax on my ear and swiftly ripped it off. The barber showed me all the hair that was stuck in the wax. I noticed he always tripped on that. The barber ripped the wax from my other ear. Again, he showed me the effectiveness of the wax. He picked up a towel and cleaned off the residual wax.
The barber carefully started to peel the dried facemask from my face. He carefully removed it a little at a time with a short pulling motion until the mask came off my face in one piece. My skin felt invigorated.
The barber said something that I did not understand. He repeated it in broken English. “Oh yes” I responded. “I do want gel.” I don’t usually use gel. I typically use a matte pomade made by Suavecito. I agreed to the gel because otherwise I would look strange with the mohawk situation my hair had become. It was buzzed on the sides and the top part was long with a chiseled part on the side. The barber removed the sanek. He unsnapped the barber’s cape and walked to the counter. He picked up a hair dryer and proceeded to blow off all the excess hair from my clothing. I stood up and pulled out my long wallet. It was tattooed leather. It was a Berluti. Scritto. “How much?” I asked. “One hundred riyals.”, he said. I pulled out one hundred and fifty riyals. “Thank you so much!”, the man said as he took the colorful bills. “Until next time.”, I said. I pulled out my phone to call the Uber as I walked out of the shop onto the busy sidewalk. The sun was setting behind the rows of short buildings that lined the street. It cast long shadows on the chaos below.