Haircut | By: William Collins | | Category: Short Story - Life Bookmark and Share


Usually once a trip in Tripoli I wander off to a barber about 1/2 mile away leaving a note on my door. Gone for 1 hour.
I have to confess I love going to the barber even though I don't have much hair.
The barber takes much more time in his little hole in the wall shop out here than back home.
It is an art form and a real profession.

I always sit in the chair silently, speak my few words mix of arabic/french with "thumb and index finger" indicating the sign of how long to Achmed and leave at the end of it feeling a bit younger ( was going to say 20 but don't want you to laugh too much) The skill and dedication shown is humbling and as I sit I hear the sad sounding calls to prayer issued by the nearby mosque. I feel totally relaxed. Not worried at all when I feel the sharp blade scrape the edge of my neck during the shave.
I don't worry now as I have used Achmed several times.
He is safe.
He finishes up with a spray of cologne and some gell, no small talk, 1 hour in total 20 dinars down and I am back in the office wanting to share my experience.
The end

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