Upon Getting a Haircut in Istanbul

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Most Turkish men are very clean. OK, so they don’t shave every day and seem to proudly avoid matching colors in their clothing choices, but in general Turkish men take pride in their appearance. Therefore, haircuts are important. There are ‘kuafors’ everywhere, and they seem to have no shortage of customers of all genders, seven days a week. I’ve seen people being trimmed at seven in the morning on a work day. Male-only snip-shops, however, are called berbers.

My first hair cut in Istanbul took place in an historic (but then, what isn’t historic in Istanbul?) berber shop run by a man named Adil. His shop is in Arnavutkoy, originally a Greek (hence, Christian) enclave about a ten minute walk along the Bosphorus from where I write. Adil is the chief barber in a tiny shop that features three seats facing three sinks connected by an ancient-looking sheet of solid, caramel-and-black streaked marble. Adil is bald, with bushy black eyebrows, and a closely trimmed white beard smelling of talc. The berber shop has been in his family for generations.

Since Adil wished to impress me and insure that I would come back to his shop, he gave me the ultimate neighborhood Turkish haircut experience. It took about 40 minutes and involved trimming hairs away from everything above my shoulders. This being the first haircut in my new country, I was mentally alert to the sequence of events, and had prepared myself for the stimulation of the senses of sight, smell and touch. I was not prepared for the sense of fear, however—a terrifying trial by fire explained below.

As in any barber shop, one must first confirm with the barber how one wishes one’s head to appear following the operation. Since no one in Adil’s shop speaks English, this process involves much miming, nodding, grunting and thumbs-upping or -downing. Then the shearing begins.

The hair of the head is cut first, done dry, using only scissors guided by fingers. (Electric trimmers are eschewed, used only in the modern in-and-out shops.) There was very little talking during this process, even among the Turk speakers. Haircutting is a serious business here, not conducive to chitchat. After my eyebrows were trimmed in a similar fashion, tea was served, brought by an apprentice, obtained from a shop a few doors away.

Next came the appendages: nose and ears. To trim the inner nasal passages, the berber gently but firmly pushes your head back until you are staring at the ceiling, then inserts his thumb into the chosen nostril to spread it open and snips away with the other hand. Repeat, opposite nostril. Now comes the scary part.

Ear hairs are not trimmed off, they are singed away. The berber dips a cotton swab with a long, thin wooden stem into a bottle of clear, flammable fluid, then ignites it with a cigarette lighter. Meanwhile, the apprentice holds your head to the side with one hand and spreads an ear open with the other. The berber then carefully flicks the flames onto your ear and the hairs are burned away. The experience is harmless but alarming. The first time I went through it, when the apprentice turned my head toward the mirror, my expression resembled that of the panicked horse in Picasso’s “Guernica.” Perhaps sensing my state of disquietude, Adil had his apprentice bring me another glass of tea.

The deluxe Turkish haircut ends with the shave. This features hot towels, fragrant shaving soap and a new razor--the whole works. Extra shaving cream is ladled onto more treacherous or heavily forested areas. I just closed my eyes with a sigh and placed my life into the hands of a stranger who could have slit my throat any time he wanted. I wondered about how many Turkish throats Adil’s Greek ancestors had cut, or vice versa.

After a light dusting with talcum powder, I was soon back on the street, tonsorially enhanced, for less than $10. Adil is a deal!