Musician | Arranger | Composer

Earlier I had a most interesting haircut.  After some wandering, I walked into a unassuming average-looking barber shop, and not knowing what to expect, sat down.  Soon thereafter my barber emerged from the basement of the shop, as if he’d been waiting his whole life to cut my hair.  He gave me a look, that kind of said, I am the shit, don’t talk to me, and be prepared for the best haircut of your life.  A gong went off.

I sat down, gave myself a glance in the mirror, that, with an overtone of slight disapproval at my current “look”,  said,  “it’s time, let’s do this”.
This man, with his sleeves rolled up and pristine yet foreign fashion style, dressed me and we begun.
Sans scissors, just a blade and stone concentration, he started  with the long overgrown shrubbery otherwise known as the back of my head.  It hurt.  As he took pleasure in hacking away, his fellow trainees watched in deep concentration.  I decided they must be his understudies.  My speculation turned out to be correct.
The haircut lasted over an hour.   No scissors, just a blade and a determined artist- gone-barber.  I felt like a block of marble unturned.  I thought, this must be how marble felt before it turned into Michelangelo’s David. “It’s going to be ok,  I am being sculpted”, I internally chanted, “stick it out and don’t be a ….”
He finished one side, and then the other , while exuding a familiar scent of pride, that was so recognizable even thousands of miles from home.  I told him, “you’re good”, and he replied, “I know.”  He MAY have cracked the slightest smile.  Maybe…
As I transformed into the man I once was, short haired and baby faced(so I’ve been told) I suddenly new that luck had shined down on me.  Then, in a split second, the apparently  legendary sculptor emerged with a long stick, and at the end, a burning amber which he lunged it into my ear–yes that’s right–a stick with live fire on the end.  Ok I thought, this is fucked up.  But apparently, my Turkish barber unfazed, was simply trimming my ear hairs.  I giggled like a child–and to cap it off–without warning he parlayed a scorching hot towel onto my face.  I cringed but could not show him my pain!  I’m sure he gave me 3rd degree burns, but more importantly,  a complexion that left me feeling the youngest I have in half a decade.
Soon thereafter, upon meeting a few British friends for dinner, who’ve  lived here for most their lives, I was immediately showered with compliments on my new makeover.  22 Quid was the damage I told them.  I assumed bragging rights.  I’d found a gem and was brave and my new found confidence heightened.  They asked for the barber’s name and contact info, with apparent approval of my transformation.  I was thankful, took out his card and suggested we order the lentil soup to start.
It was a good day, now off to Copenhagen