Trip to Turkey for a Haircut

Barber waiting for clients

WOOD GREEN, LONDON

In the rush of tasks to be done before leaving the US I didn’t have time to get a haircut at my local Super Cuts.  So, during my first few days in Wood Green I looked for the perfect men's hair salon.  On our third day, during a spitting rain I found it, Istanbul Image 1, a few doors down from the post office sandwiched in among Middle Eastern markets, butchers and a travel agent featuring posters of azure seas and roman ruins.

A couple of days later I returned for my hair cut.  I was walking home with Lily from the Hornsey Library.  Lily chose not to join me in Istanbul Image and continued home.  I entered.  I took a seat in one of a dozen chairs and deposited my daypack on the floor at my feet.  There are five barber chairs facing mirrors.  In the far corner is a TV mounted near the ceiling.  It is tuned to Turkish TV.  There is an emotional soap opera playing with flowing dresses and expressive faces.  The one client is being carefully shaved by a barber.  This is a straight-blade shave.  His ink-black hair has already been cut very tight to the skull.  The barber and he chat amiably.  The barber calls to a man in a chair near me who is reading the paper.  I think maybe he will be my barber.  No.  He is given instructions and walks over to a pot near the TV, removes the lid and stirs the contents with a long, narrow, flat wooden stick.  He carries it over to the man being shaved and carefully wipes the honey-like past on his right cheek.  He returns to the pot and repeats the process, this time applying it to the left cheek.  I surmise this must be a wax hair removal process for men with REAL beards.

A slim handsome, 40ish man with stylish grey and black hair enters Istanbul Image.  He has been standing outside smoking a cigarette.  He approaches me and motions to the chair two down from the other barber.  Without a word he places the smock over my shirt.  I speak with hand motions and a running English commentary how I’d like my hair over the ears, straight across the back and 1” shorter on top.  He nods and goes to work with the water spritzer.  A late afternoon rush starts.  My barber greets the three or four men who walk in.  One comes over and kisses the other barber on both cheeks.  My barber cuts efficiently.  He brings out an electric shears and trims…just like my Vietnamese barber does at Super Cuts in Belmont.  He asks me with his eyes how I like the cut.  I nod “just fine” in response.

At the cash register our final communication unfolds.  I ask, “How much do I owe you?”  He answers, “twen punds.”  I stare blankly.  “Once again, please.”  He tries again.  I try to understand harder.  On the third try I get it: “Ten Pounds.”  I pay.  It is the same cost as my hair cut at Super Cuts.


Peter