Barbershop

Contrary to what most of my friends who lack context, Riyadh is not a hard place to live. Modern amenities, restaurants, malls, and conveniences can be found everywhere. I’m happy about this. But a small part of me misses the adventure in the day to day difficulties of living in Quito. While frustrating in the moment, those challenges gave our experience more flavor and gave the city a specific sense of character. With all of the conveniences here, I find that I miss that from time to time. While I know that “opportunities” for those challenges still exist, I rarely seek them out because...well the aforementioned convenience. But this weekend I got to dip my toes back into the waters of “character.”

This weekend when I called for an appointment to get my hair cut, I was told there were no appointments available for the foreseeable future. I can only presume everyone is trying to look fresh for their Christmas vacations and the inevitable barrage of photos. So I decided to venture back off compound to the local barber just outside of the gates. Since it was off compound, I had to get the timing just right so I wasn’t sitting in a parking lot waiting for prayer time closings to end, or so I wasn’t rushed out of there prior to a prayer. You never want to rush the person who holds sharp objects up to your head.

So after figure out the timing, I hopped into the car and left. Since it had rained during the morning, and there is no drainage system in place, I came across small lake in the road just outside of the exit. It was about 50 feet long and wide and unquestionably deep. I was behind another car, and he stopped, so I did too. I was immediately reminded of the old video game The Oregon Trail where the player is faced with a similar situation and is forced to choose between waiting for forever for a ferry to arrive, or to “Caulk the Wagon” and try to float across. It was basically the same thing, but with a car in Saudi Arabia. After some trepidation, the car in front of me threw it in reverse to make a runway and floored it to intentionally hydroplane across the lake. I don’t think he realized that cars don’t work that way. I just drove across it because I am familiar with the works of moisture and rain.

When I finally got to the barbershop, I was greeted with a silent room of 12 men. Every seat was taken by a Saudi man, and every barber was a foreign worker from India, Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, and a few others who I couldn’t begin to guess. There was no small talk. Ice Cube was not present. The only noises were the schink schink of scissors closing, and the small television displaying various people circling Kaaba at Mecca. When it was my turn, he gestured to my head and I quickly realized “Oh god. This man speaks no English.” I shook my head yes to indicate my desire to get a haircut. He put a sheet of plastic on me. I don’t mean a nylon or fabric cover. I mean a sheet of plastic. It was thinner than a trash bag. In fact, the better way to describe it would be to say I had saran wrap draped over me. I did my best to explain (in English) what I wanted while gesturing. He nodded (still no words) and started cutting.

Things were going well and he gestured to my beard. Feeling adventurous, I nodded yes and he broke out the straight razor. He threw on some shaving cream with no water or soaking or towel, so I knew I was in for a fun razor burn. At this point, in most barbershops across the world, the chair is tilted back, to make access to my vulnerable throat meat easier. These chairs did not recline. He pretty much just moved my head with his hand and did the best that he could. I will admit, he did a great job. No cuts. No razor burn. Nice edge. He followed that up with two handfuls (yes, hand fulls) of baby powder. Judging by the packaging, the baby powder was “flower” scented and it had a picture of a dandelion on it. As a new parent, I feel like I have a pretty good grasp on what an appropriate amount of baby powder is. This gentleman, while good at his craft, did not understand this concept. By the time he was done applying it, I looked like part mime (yes he put it on my face too) and part Tony Montana at the end of Scarface.

Afterwards, he started to squeeze my head. I assumed this was the part of the haircut where you get a head massage, but there was no massaging, just pushing. It was like he wanted to pop my skull like a pimple. I tried to politely decline, but again...no English. So I think he assumed I liked the sensation of it despite my protests, and he pushed harder.

When he stopped with the squeezing routine, I opened my eyes to see if we were done, and a mere 2 inches from my face was a squirt bottle. He sprayed me in the face from point blank range, with my eyes open, which made the baby powder cake up and gave me that fresh feeling of water boarding.

When it was finally time to go, I admired the strong work he did on the haircut through the baby powder laced tears of my watering eyes. Not a single word that he or I said was received or understood by the other. I paid my $6 and I was out of there. But hey, at least I got my “character” experience out of it, and a nice haircut too.