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.

Back in business

Technological problems resolved; elktown is back on the air. Sorry about the delay. I hope your lives were only minimally shattered by the absence.

The Wonderful Journalism Ethics of the Middle East, Part II

Last time on The Wonderful Journalism Ethics of the Middle East, we saw a doctored photo of Prince Harry on the cover of one of Dubai's biggest newspapers. The doctoring job was terrible, but that didn't stop the paper from bragging about its photo-editing skills in the very caption of the picture itself.

Today, in Part II of The Wonderful Journalism Ethics of the Middle East, we will hear about a newspaper reporter at Dubai's second-largest daily paper who gives new meaning to the word "stooge." Let's call him "Sushil," because that is his name.

Sushil's paper is Dubai's scrappy underdog, a little like the New York Post. His beat is unclear. It's something in the lifestyle/education area. The S.A.T. – which locals call the SAT, as in "I SAT on a pin" – falls under Sushil's portfolio, so he's always slinking around our office.

Sushil is on my office's payroll; that much is clear. I was sitting in my boss's office once while he was flipping through Sushil's paper. He suddenly scowled and grabbed his phone, punched a button on speed dial. "Sushil!" he barked. "I told you to get my story in the paper today!"

Mumbled reply.

"No!" he shouted. "When I tell you I want my story in the paper on a certain date, I want to see it on that date. I don't want to hear about anything else, do you understand?"

"Yes," mumble mumble.

"So when will I see my story?"

"Tomorrow." And my boss slammed down the phone, then grinned at me. The ferocity – the imperiousness – I couldn't help but be reminded of how Part B News is treated by MGMA. Just kidding. My friends in the media relations biz: Don’t you wish!

The amazing part is, Sushil comes through. I have personally seen a half-dozen stories about my company in the paper, all glowing testimonials to its brilliance. I myself have been interviewed for two of the stories, watched Sushil scribble down my words on paper in Urdu or some such. In both cases, I was quoted at extreme length – it's easier to write a story if it's just one big long quote – and the words were garbled, rearranged and in many cases, totally inaccurate. For instance, I'm pretty sure I didn't say that Philadelphia is two kilometers away from New York City.

Like a lot of reporters, Sushil loves to make up his own storyline. In one case, I drove out to the paper with one of our students who did well on the SAT. I had never met the kid. Sushil interviewed us together, and when the story came out, it was "Kansas meets India: Great SAT Scores Make Fast Friends of Two Young Men." I never did learn my Fast Friend's name.

One more point: racism. White skin is prized here in very subtle ways. Out of the five American teachers here, four are white; one is Indian. In Sushil's profile story about the other four, before I got here, the three white teachers were featured prominently at the beginning. Their exploits and credentials were described in lovingly wrong detail. Shantanu got one little misquote in the last paragraph, and it made him seem like a jerk. Sushil did this, though he himself is an Indian. I'm sure that means something, though I'm not sure what.

One final note: Eating lunch the other day – far from our office and the newspaper – we saw Sushil wandering aimlessly across a parking lot. He ambled towards one curb, then the other, before reversing and heading back down the sidewalk. Maybe he was looking for someone to tell him what to write?