But I might die at the barber's tonight!
On the late shift this eve, so took advantage of the free and easy morning by going to the barber's. Barbers are always nice and quiet before lunch on a weekday, so I opted for a haircut and a shave and settled back expecting snippage and light conversation.
Nothing so mundane.
I had gone to City Barber, 24 Tudor Street, EC4 for the first time - recently opened with trendy new ground glass basins and ergonomic yellow chairs. Tasteful.
Haircut was as per usual, then Zeki Pihlis (the barber) produced a cut-throat razor with disposable blades and started lathering up a nice old-fashioned badger-hair brush.
The thought crossed my mind that there must be a better name for a razor that a stranger is about to put to your neck than 'cut-throat'.
Of course, having removed my spectacles for the procedure, the razor appeared as a dim, fuzzy, flashing object, nicely adding to the sense of impending doom that started when a second thought occurred - I was not 100 yards from where the infamous Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street had set up shop, murdered his customers with such a razor and had their remains made into pies. The foam had been applied when thought number three kicked in. This barber's had been part of a greasy spoon cafe and the owners had converted part of it, whilst retaining the cafe next door.
Oh, bleedin' heck. As he shaved me, I knew any concerns were wholly unwarranted but at the back of my mind, a voice said "You never know do you? I mean you do hear about these things don't you?"
It all passed off without incident - in truth, he gave me a damn good shave, lathering twice and stretching my skin to make sure all the hairs were reached.
He then dabbed a bit of cold cream on my face - and then a bit on each of my hands. What for, I wondered as he poured some liquid into his hands and slapped it on my face.
The liquid felt like pure alcohol. Nrrrgh......
I felt like my face was on fire and barely restrained myself from squealing like a girl with a skinned knee. The barber massaged it into my face, in a way which would have been enjoyable except for the the extreme burning sensation coupled with the alcohol fumes making me almost choke everytime I drew breath.
However, I hadn't winced yet and I was damned if was going to start now.
After the facial massage, my face was wrapped in hot towels and I subsided into a nice tingling feeling. Cool. He then started rubbing the cream into my hands. Lovely.
That is, until he started twisting each of my fingers 'til the knuckles popped, wrenching my arm out and then pummelling it. Same routine with other one, then he leant me forward and pummelled my back and shoulder muscles.
Tamils breed their children tough, however, and by this time I was practically blase about the whole deal and loving every minute.
I was leant back, the towels were removed and I was left feeling as fresh as a daisy. Albeit, a slightly trodden-on daisy.
Which left me a little unprepared for what happened next. He held up a taper and lit the end producing a large yellow flame (and I didn't need specs to notice that).
Then, and only then, did I realize that I was getting my first full-on Turkish barber experience.
Noting my impassiveness he asked, "You have Turkish shave before?"
"No. But I've read about it", I replied loftily.
The flame was danced over my face, igniting some of the residual alcohol to singe off any nose or ear hair, before he patted me down. Ace.
Sauntered off to work, good and relaxed.
That didn't last long. One of the features of the evening shift is sitting alone in an office that usually has a team of 9 people. Surrounding office lights go off and it gets rather spooky. If it's a quiet night there's nothing much to do except wait for the next piece of work and brood about what sequence of events, starting with one's birth, led you to manning an office in a City of London backwater at nine o'clock on a Wednesday night. Much brooding this eve.
Not helped by one of the albums I listen to at work being Tea For The Tillerman by Cat Stevens, with track six, now playing:
"But I Might Die Tonight"
Don’t want to work away
Doin’ just what they all say
Work hard boy and you’ll find
One day you’ll have a job like mine
’cause I know for sure
Nobody should be that poor
To say yes or sink low
Because you happen to say so, say so, you say so
I don’t want to work away
Doing just what they all say
Work hard boy and you’ll find
One day you’ll have a job like mine, job like mine, a job like mine
Be wise, look ahead
Use your eyes he said
Be straight, think right
But I might die tonight!
Hmm. It's been a funny old day.... ;)
Nothing so mundane.
I had gone to City Barber, 24 Tudor Street, EC4 for the first time - recently opened with trendy new ground glass basins and ergonomic yellow chairs. Tasteful.
Haircut was as per usual, then Zeki Pihlis (the barber) produced a cut-throat razor with disposable blades and started lathering up a nice old-fashioned badger-hair brush.
The thought crossed my mind that there must be a better name for a razor that a stranger is about to put to your neck than 'cut-throat'.
Of course, having removed my spectacles for the procedure, the razor appeared as a dim, fuzzy, flashing object, nicely adding to the sense of impending doom that started when a second thought occurred - I was not 100 yards from where the infamous Sweeney Todd, the Demon Barber of Fleet Street had set up shop, murdered his customers with such a razor and had their remains made into pies. The foam had been applied when thought number three kicked in. This barber's had been part of a greasy spoon cafe and the owners had converted part of it, whilst retaining the cafe next door.
Oh, bleedin' heck. As he shaved me, I knew any concerns were wholly unwarranted but at the back of my mind, a voice said "You never know do you? I mean you do hear about these things don't you?"
It all passed off without incident - in truth, he gave me a damn good shave, lathering twice and stretching my skin to make sure all the hairs were reached.
He then dabbed a bit of cold cream on my face - and then a bit on each of my hands. What for, I wondered as he poured some liquid into his hands and slapped it on my face.
The liquid felt like pure alcohol. Nrrrgh......
I felt like my face was on fire and barely restrained myself from squealing like a girl with a skinned knee. The barber massaged it into my face, in a way which would have been enjoyable except for the the extreme burning sensation coupled with the alcohol fumes making me almost choke everytime I drew breath.
However, I hadn't winced yet and I was damned if was going to start now.
After the facial massage, my face was wrapped in hot towels and I subsided into a nice tingling feeling. Cool. He then started rubbing the cream into my hands. Lovely.
That is, until he started twisting each of my fingers 'til the knuckles popped, wrenching my arm out and then pummelling it. Same routine with other one, then he leant me forward and pummelled my back and shoulder muscles.
Tamils breed their children tough, however, and by this time I was practically blase about the whole deal and loving every minute.
I was leant back, the towels were removed and I was left feeling as fresh as a daisy. Albeit, a slightly trodden-on daisy.
Which left me a little unprepared for what happened next. He held up a taper and lit the end producing a large yellow flame (and I didn't need specs to notice that).
Then, and only then, did I realize that I was getting my first full-on Turkish barber experience.
Noting my impassiveness he asked, "You have Turkish shave before?"
"No. But I've read about it", I replied loftily.
The flame was danced over my face, igniting some of the residual alcohol to singe off any nose or ear hair, before he patted me down. Ace.
Sauntered off to work, good and relaxed.
That didn't last long. One of the features of the evening shift is sitting alone in an office that usually has a team of 9 people. Surrounding office lights go off and it gets rather spooky. If it's a quiet night there's nothing much to do except wait for the next piece of work and brood about what sequence of events, starting with one's birth, led you to manning an office in a City of London backwater at nine o'clock on a Wednesday night. Much brooding this eve.
Not helped by one of the albums I listen to at work being Tea For The Tillerman by Cat Stevens, with track six, now playing:
"But I Might Die Tonight"
Don’t want to work away
Doin’ just what they all say
Work hard boy and you’ll find
One day you’ll have a job like mine
’cause I know for sure
Nobody should be that poor
To say yes or sink low
Because you happen to say so, say so, you say so
I don’t want to work away
Doing just what they all say
Work hard boy and you’ll find
One day you’ll have a job like mine, job like mine, a job like mine
Be wise, look ahead
Use your eyes he said
Be straight, think right
But I might die tonight!
Hmm. It's been a funny old day.... ;)
posted by Scattergun @ 8:42 pm
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