My Turkish Barber

There is hair on my head, not as much as there used to be, but it is there. There is hair on my face. It grows and, generally, I'm pleased about that.

Eventually, it needs attention. While I sometimes think I should persevere and acquire long flowing locks which floats behind me in the wind, I realise that's not going to happen. Ever. It needs cutting.

When you are in a foreign country and don't speak the language, getting your hair cut can be a risky business. How to pass on the necessary instructions? How do you distinguish between a trim and removal?

So I entered a barber shop with some trepidation not really being fully confident on how I might look when I left. My barber had a little English and that was very reassuring. He knew 'haircut', 'a lot' and 'not so much'. That would be enough.

He cut my hair with incredible attention to detail. Two pairs of scissors and a pair of hand clippers were involved. He trimmed my beard. Electric clippers, scissors and a comb. He trimmed my eyebrows - I didn't really expect that. He cut hair from all head orifices, without causing any tickling!.

I rose to get up. No, I was told. I sat down.

My hair was washed. My face was washed. My neck was washed. And it was all dried. Cotton wool for the ears. Magic potions were applied.

It was wonderful.

I told him this was my first Turkish haircut and could I take his photograph. Someone translated. He agreed and was happy with the result.

Visits to Barry the Barber back home will never be the same.