Hair Cut

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Never go to a hairdresser in Turkey if you don’t have a good sense of humor, or if you’re not secure in the knowledge that hair grows back – eventually. I’m not one for hairstyle, or even one for hair brushing, but I thought it’d be fitting to get a hair cut for the new year. I suppose I should have asked someone to teach me how to say, “Just a little off the ends” or, “Stop! That’s enough!” in Turkish, but I didn’t. Instead, I indicated how much I wanted cut off on my stylist’s finger and let him have at it. He immediately set to grabbing random chunks of hair and cutting them off at random lengths, all of them longer than the amount I was willing to lose. When one pair of scissors went away, another pair came out and he continued to hack away with no signs of slowing – and I had no words to stop him. With a deep breath, I resigned myself to a month of wearing a hat.

Finally, all of the scissors were placed in his meticulous black bag and rollers and a dryer appeared out of a drawer. After several minutes of extreme heat and hair-yanking, I looked at my reflection and saw a short-haired Farrah Fawcett (circa 1976 and much less stylish) staring back at me. Large, feathered and gravity-defying waves curled away from my face. I flashed him a quick thumbs up and ran out of eyesight, into the street, where I tried to flatten the undulating hair into a semblance of normalcy. Next time, I’ll live with my split ends – or bring a translator.

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