“How short you want it?”
I look into the mirror, straight into the eyes of the masked Syrian wielding a pair of razor-sharp scissors standing behind me. For a moment they seem to glint in the light, evilly.
“Oh, you know – same as usual,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “Short on the sides but keep it a bit longer on the top. You’re the expert – do what you think is best. It just needs to be passable for Zoom.”
I’ve been coming here for years. From the outside the shop looks like a typical Turkish barber / money laundering scheme. But upon entry, one is greeted by this cheery pair of Syrian brothers.
“How many millimetres on the sides?” he asks. “Nine or six?”
“Um. No idea.” If only they asked me every time, I might remember.
“Nine!” his brother shouts from across the room.
Nine it is.
I like coming here. The cut is good, the price is right, the brothers are friendly – and you don’t often meet Syrians around this neck of the woods. Because of the language barrier, I’m only ever able gather snippets of their story: The brothers left home some years ago and came here – pretty much on foot – and haven’t been back to see their families for years; their business was hit hard by COVID, but they still run it every day; and it’s difficult to meet a nice woman here they tell me, being a Syrian immigrant. Sounds about right.
“How short do you want the top?” He pulls at my hair, measuring it with thick fingers.
“You can make it a little shorter.”
“I wouldn’t make it much shorter,” he eyes my head skeptically. “Otherwise, one might see that it’s thinning.”
“Right. Better keep it long then.” #PainicAttack #GettingBetterWithAge?
“You know,” he says in a heavy Arab accent, “a lot of people think cutting hair is easy. But I tell you brother – it’s not. Giving someone a good cut… it’s an art!”
“I’m sure it is.” I respond earnestly. “That’s why I keep coming back here, Picasso!”
He laughs.
“Some hairdressers,” he says, “they sit, while cutting their customers hair. But not me. An artist needs to stand! If you want to give a proper cut, you need to stand. You wouldn’t believe how much my back hurts by the end of the day.”
Thinking of my job and how much my back hurts from sitting all day, I solemnly conclude that there seems to be no in-between: standing or sitting, everyone’s back seems doomed to give out sooner or later.
“You know, some people come in here with a picture of Brad Pitt and ask me for his haircut – but everyone's hair is different. You can’t just turn anyones hair into Brad Pitt! I’ve cut many, many people’s hair and I swear – some peoples' hair is hard as stone! Impossible to cut!” He picks at my hair, fretfully. “Not yours. Yours is soft. Too soft. You use oil?”
“Uh... yeah.” It works well on Indian hair. Apparently.
“Good. Keep doing that.” He pauses to look at me in the mirror. “You know,” he says sternly, “when you lose your hair your life is over.”
“What?!” I exclaim. That seems a bit extreme.
“When you lose your hair, your life is over. Look!” He points at a part of his scalp where the hair is thinning. “See! My life is over,” he says smiling.
“Ooooooh.” I get it. “You mean life goes on!”
“Exactly, that’s what I said!” He beams at me.
With the eye of a surgeon and the pride of DaVinci, he puts the final touches to the cut.
“There!” He holds up a mirror. “What do you think?”
“It’s a masterpiece!” I respond happily, jumping out of the seat.
I pay the bill, fist-bump the two brothers, say my thanks and leave, relieved and reassured by the fact that my life is not yet quite over.
THE END
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