A Dogubayazit Haircut

Today I went to a genuine Turkish barbers. I know it was genuine because it was actually in Turkey, in the far east of the country, in a little town called Dogubayazit. Although it’s close to the Iranian border and in the shadow of Mt Ararat, I doubt they see many tourists.

I was long overdue a haircut, and while walking between an Internet café and a restaurant I happened upon a barbers.

Julie and I were warmly welcomed and in a mix of pigeon English and sign language I asked for a number 2. I was shown to the chair and adorned with the usual cape while watching my wife behind, through the mirror, trying to chat politely to the young Turkish assistant.

The clippers were quickly set to work at which point the young lad rose quickly and left. It only took a couple of minutes to relieve me of my unruly hair, at which point the young lad returned with a tray of small glasses. The haircut was put on hold for a hot glass of black tea before continuing with a trim and tidy up. A pair of small pointy ear clippers came out to remove the odd stray hair and then without any warning whatsoever, the barber tilted my head back, took hold of my nostrils, and gently shoved the trimmer inside. I froze, my eyes wide with surprise. I caught a glance of Julie in the mirror, trying not to laugh, as was I by now.

I wouldn’t have minded, but I had never suffered from nose hair. I do now!