8 1/2 months of growth:
I had plenty of hair for even the most uninspired person wielding a pair of shears to work with, and figured there was no reason I shouldn't emerge from any salon looking like a god, or at least a marginal, minor demi-god.
I was ready for my new stud persona and traipsed down the hill to a place I had noticed before that looked respectable. I eagerly hopped up the stairs, swung open the door, and... walked into an obvious conversation lull. The music video on the TV literally ended as soon as I crossed the threshhold, plunging the room into complete silence as eight people swiveled their heads, locking their eyes on me. The door closed with a quiet clink behind me. Nobody moved. I fought the urge to scratch an untimely itch in my groin area.
The next music video started, but everyone continued staring at me. One stylist had an air of command about him so I looked directly at him, gave him my best goofy smile, and said "Hair cut?" He tilted his head quizzically. Uh-oh. This was clearly a no English zone. I mimed cutting my hair with scissors. The General, as I decided to call him, smiled broadly back at me in understanding and gestured for me to sit down in a waiting area chair. And with that, everyone went back to their business.
I settled myself in and surveyed the scene to see what I had gotten myself into. The salon was small, only three chairs and two of them occupied, but had that universal hip look that would have been at home in any major city in the world. There was one woman seated behind the counter chatting on the phone, one woman standing by a set of stairs with her hands folded intently watching the stylists, one woman cutting a client's hair, and the General cutting another client's hair. There were also two boys about 8 or so sporting perfectly gelled and styled hair rushing around in constant motion washing windows, cleaning mirrors, sweeping the floor, bringing various cutting implements to the stylists, and I grew weary just watching them. I was completely fascinated by their hair, however. When I was their age I had no idea what gel was, typically sporting dirt and twigs in my oh-so-stylish bowl cut.
After a few minutes, the General motioned for me to sit in the remaining salon chair. He said something to the standing woman who immediately ran up the stairs with alacrity, returning shortly followed by a fellow with a shaved head (who I named Mr. Clean). The General and Mr. Clean bent heads to talk as the woman approached me shyly and asked "Cafe? Chai?" I was beginning to think they didn't get many foreigners in the place. I said yes to the chai and looked expectantly at Mr. Clean as he glided over, his brow slightly furrowed, accompanied by the General. In what has to be the most in-depth discussion ever had over my hair, they both completely ignored me while taking turns apparently making their case for specific styles. Mr. Clean would fluff up my hair, holding handfuls this way and that with a running commentary while the General hovered, arms crossed, occasional gravelly grunts emerging from his pursed lips as he contemplated Mr. Clean's vision. Then the General would toussle my hair, running his fingers through it and pulling some to the side with animated gestures as Mr. Clean stood back, hand on hip with finger on his mouth and arched eyebrow, trying to envision the General's genius. This was a clearly a consultation of the highest order.
Finally, they reached some sort of agreement and Mr. Clean snapped his fingers at one of the gel twins, sending him scurrying out the front door, before spinning on his heel and disappearing up the stairs. Gel twin returned momentarily, breathless and flushed, followed by a fellow that I just had to call Guido. He walked in with what can only be described as a swagger, hair perfectly swept back from his face, dressed all in black with gold cufflinks in his french cuffs and shirt unbuttoned the three buttons necessary to display the thick gold chain hanging around his neck. His Errol Flynn style mustache twitched as he stopped behind me and said "Hello!" with an amused glint in his eye. My follow up response and inquiry elicited a shrug -- he had already said his one English word. He gave my hair an appraising look, eyeing it from all sides, then snapped at the gel twins who hustled over and prepped me for my hair wash with a flurry of fabrics and uncannily efficient tucking.
It was only then I noticed that the sink was directly in front of my chair. Well that's useful, I thought, expecting to be turned around and tilt my head back into the sink instead of having to get up and walk to the sinks like a typical salon. Guido smiled at me and motioned for me to lean over the sink face first. Face first? As in, head under water? Ok, that's awkward. With a sigh I leaned over and put my head under the faucet, envisioning blowing bubbles with my face underwater. What ensued was a combination hair wash, face wash, head massage, and face massage, all while I desperately tried to breath through the water running into my nose and mouth. I couldn't breathe through my mouth continuously or else I would wind up with Guido's fingers in my mouth as he scrubbed my face, and I couldn't breath through my nose continuously because Guido kept splashing water up my nose as he was washing my hair. I setttled on alternating 4 quick mouth puffs and 4 quick nose snorts in hopes to avoid fingers and/or water 50% of the time. I ended up sounding like I was simultaneously practicing Lamaze and blowing water bubbles with my nose.
Unable to ignore my choking noises any longer, Guido turned off the water and I managed a fast gasp of air before he slapped a towel around my head and face. In one quick, brusque motion, he jerked me back upright into my chair, forearms wrapped around my head and neck in a modified Half Nelson, then proceeded to roughly slap pat my head while keeping the towel tightly wound around my face. It was a bit of a challenge to breathe with someone whacking me about the head and suffocating me with a towel. With no warning, Guido whipped the towel back from my face and began briskly toweling my hair with such effort that a felt like a wet St. Bernard. It was all I could do to sit upright in the chair as he spun around my chair rubbing my head with the towel at hyperspeed, flinging droplets of water on the customer two chairs away. He stopped abruptly, panting slightly. I took my first real breath in 10 minutes and cautiously opened my eyes. Guido took a moment to admire his work with a triumphant grin, then swept his arm out at Mr. Clean who had magically reappeared, signalling it was time for the main event.
Mr. Clean strode over to me confidently and paused behind my chair to survey the morass of hair confronting him like a man sizing up his enemy. This was not going to be a kinder, gentler cut. Oh no, it was evident that Mr. Clean felt hair was to be chopped and tamed and molded to his will. Woe be the curly headed patron. I noticed with a start that the employees had gathered around -- Guido, the gel twins, the chai woman, and the front desk woman were all standing a respectful radius around me, sensing the upcoming battle. With a flick of his wrist Mr. Clean held out his hand and one of the gel twins slapped a pair of scissors in his palm. The thwack echoed in the room. Mr. Clean slowly raised the scissors, all eyes watching its silvery arc, then held them, poised above my head, in the most ridiculous dramatic pause imaginable. The anticipation was palpable. Then, with a fell swoop, the scissors descended upon my head and Mr. Clean attacked my hair.
It was the most dazzling display of cutting I've ever seen. Mr. Clean was a dizzying whirl of speed, wielding the scissors with such flourish and verve that I half expected him to air snap the few times he paused to assess his work with grim satisfaction. The crowd was appreciatively wide-eyed and he was clearly putting on a show. Even the General could not help but glance over, increasingly ignoring his client. It was a magnificent effort.
As my hair piled up on the floor, I began to suspect what Mr. Clean's vision was for me. I continued to hold out with hope that I was wrong, however, even as Guido took over for further duties that included trimming my sideburns and nape of my neck, and rinsing me off once again with the whole face underwater and rough towel treatment. I cringed when the hair dryer appeared and Mr. Clean brandished it with a wild gleam in his eye. I didn't have the heart to tell him that the cut was not exactly me as I watched my hair volume get bigger and bigger because he had obviously put his heart and soul into it. I did manage to shake my head when he produced the industrial size can of hairspray, but quickly broke down under his pleading gaze, much to his relief. How could I not let him finish his creation? He was an artist, after all, although I may not have agreed with his viewpoint.
With a few spritzes of hairspray from three feet away and a couple of final fluffs, Mr. Clean stood back to admire the final result. It was breathtaking. I could tell he was extraordinarily pleased with his handiwork as he smiled in acknowledgement to the murmurs of approval from the gathered employees. The General even congratulated him on a job well done. I, too, might have basked in the glory that was my hair if I had not been trying so hard to control my mirth. Mr. Clean had given me a haircut decades younger than my years and I looked like a member of a second rate emo band. Although, to be fair, I did look remarkably like many of the pre-20 set strutting around the streets. Struggling to maintain my composure, I thanked them all as graciously as possible, quickly paid and hurried out the door in an effort to get back to the apartment to take a photo. I was touched when they all waved goodbye. Unfortunately, it was a rather windy day and this was the best I could do to recreate the "look" by the time I got back to the apartment.
I should have let Mr. Clean use more hairspray:
I chalked it up to an amusing cultural experience and opted to get my hair cut again a few days later, although I felt somewhat guilty destroying Mr. Clean's creation. I knew I didn't really deserve to wear it, however, for I didn't fully appreciate his artistry. Plus I'm just not high hair maintenance enough. Instead, I wound up with something that doesn't require hairdryers and hairspray, something that thankfully doesn't require daily showers. 
If I'm ever back in Istanbul, though, I intend to pay another visit to Mr. Clean just to see what else he comes up with.
To recap, let's just group everything together to better understand the freakish transformation:
2 comments:
I think you were missing some make-up and maybe some leather pants, and then you could have been a rockstar.
Still too long, darlin. Stop by the office when you've got the buzz cut again, huh? I'll pet your head. :-)
Tere
Post a Comment