The haircut
I left the Internet cafe a half hour ago and passed the Thaqeb Gents Saloon on the way home. Having gotten a bit shaggy, I ducked in for a quick trim. Thirty minutes later, I exited and headed right back to the Internet cafe, where I sit this very minute, because this experience must be recorded.
It didn't start well. I stepped on the footrest of the chair, assuming that it -- like American barber footrests -- was somehow affixed to the ground and would bear my weight. I stepped on it and nearly flipped myself and the chair into the sink.
Once settled, I attempted to communicate with the Indian barber. I was vividly recalling my grueling haircut experiences in France, where my vocabulary was insufficient to convey how I wanted my hair to look, ensuring a series of bizarre attempts to bring continental fashions to life on my head. In truth, I don't even have the English vocabulary to explain how I like my hair cut. Only Tony knows how to do it, and he just retired.
Strangely enough, our lack of a common language helped me explain myself to the Indian barber. I held my fingers an inch apart, indicating the length I wanted him to trim. Then as he reached for the scissors, I panicked: What if he thought that's how long I wanted it? I grabbed for the scissors, took a piece of my own hair and mimed cutting it the length I wanted. Then I pointed around my ears and gestured at the clippers. He smiled and nodded. Pointing and grunting like a monkey: the international language.
His first act was to quickly unbutton the top button on my shirt, which caused me a sudden uncomfortable feeling I'd rather not describe in too much detail. Then he trussed me up in various drapes and papers and started clipping away.
It turns out I shouldn't have worried about the length: In the end, he cut it right down to an inch anyway. The interim was filled with the usual head-turnings and face-brushings. At one point he suddenly started massaging my head very heavily, turning his fingers through my hair the way I used to pet my dog. The purpose of that part, God only knows. Near the end, I got patted down with a powder called DreamFlower: A Floral Misting of Fragrant Freshness, according to the bottle. Now I smell like an Indian dude.
As for the haircut itself: How does it look? Well, I don't know how to describe it exactly... but my hair has a very Indian flavor to it now.
It didn't start well. I stepped on the footrest of the chair, assuming that it -- like American barber footrests -- was somehow affixed to the ground and would bear my weight. I stepped on it and nearly flipped myself and the chair into the sink.
Once settled, I attempted to communicate with the Indian barber. I was vividly recalling my grueling haircut experiences in France, where my vocabulary was insufficient to convey how I wanted my hair to look, ensuring a series of bizarre attempts to bring continental fashions to life on my head. In truth, I don't even have the English vocabulary to explain how I like my hair cut. Only Tony knows how to do it, and he just retired.
Strangely enough, our lack of a common language helped me explain myself to the Indian barber. I held my fingers an inch apart, indicating the length I wanted him to trim. Then as he reached for the scissors, I panicked: What if he thought that's how long I wanted it? I grabbed for the scissors, took a piece of my own hair and mimed cutting it the length I wanted. Then I pointed around my ears and gestured at the clippers. He smiled and nodded. Pointing and grunting like a monkey: the international language.
His first act was to quickly unbutton the top button on my shirt, which caused me a sudden uncomfortable feeling I'd rather not describe in too much detail. Then he trussed me up in various drapes and papers and started clipping away.
It turns out I shouldn't have worried about the length: In the end, he cut it right down to an inch anyway. The interim was filled with the usual head-turnings and face-brushings. At one point he suddenly started massaging my head very heavily, turning his fingers through my hair the way I used to pet my dog. The purpose of that part, God only knows. Near the end, I got patted down with a powder called DreamFlower: A Floral Misting of Fragrant Freshness, according to the bottle. Now I smell like an Indian dude.
As for the haircut itself: How does it look? Well, I don't know how to describe it exactly... but my hair has a very Indian flavor to it now.
posted by Eric at 12:57 PM
6 Comments:
His first act was to quickly unbutton the top button on my shirtNote to self: Find Indian barber.
Geez, Klein ... did you get the Happy Ending, too?
this Dubai haircut experience is being copied and mailed to Mr. Tony Hageman, the retired barber of overland Park Ks., who I am sure will derive much merriment from reading it. Why don't you use that nice camera, and photograph, rather than the mosques and malls of Muscat and Muttrah, the top and back of your head. Then post that sight on your blogspot so that your family and friends may gaze in wonder at what used to be a rather handsome cranium. Will there be any similiarity to the Great Bird of Fujeirah? We're all waiting anxiously to see.
Eric,
That whole dog-petting thing? Here in America we call that a scalp massage, and you can only get one at very fancy-schmancy salons. Who knew you were so posh?
Kathleen
Dad: No chance.
Kathleen: The haircut cost $2!
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