At the Barbershop

As many of you know, I am pretty particular about how my hair looks. In the mornings I've been known to spend seconds, sometimes even minutes, getting it just right. To the naked eye it may look like bedhead, but in fact it is a meticulously groomed fashion statement. For this reason, when it came time to get a haircut in East Jerusalem I approached the task with great consideration. What luck, then, that Rami's barbershop is only a stone's throw from the Albright! It is always packed with locals, so I figured Rami was just the guy to handle my head of hair.

When Bob and I arrived, we found it even more crowded than usual. We sat down and waited; Bob smoked a cigarette as did just about everyone else in the place. I was mildly annoyed when a guy jumped us in line, but I didn't protest because I knew Rami would soon have a straight razor on the back of my neck and wanted to stay on his good side. (I was glad I kept my mouth shut because later Rami told me that his brother was getting married today and lots of guys were stopping in for a trim.) At last it was my turn, and I hopped in the seat. Here's the "before" picture of me and Rami (and Bob in the mirror):

Fortunately, the guy ahead of me had hair like mine, so when I sat down, I pointed after him and said: "Like him." "OK," Rami said and got to work with the clippers. He zipped around the sides and back, speaking to the smokers, whom I could see in the mirror. Then came the straight razor; the only other time I've gotten the razor was by Frank Turnipseed at Man-Mur on Hillsborough Street in Raleigh. Frank was kind of old, and his hands were unsteady. Rami, by contrast, was confident with the razor, scraping away with no hesitation.

While waiting I had noticed that after the razor, Rami usually winds up a thin string on his fingers like dental floss and rubs it up and down the client's cheekbones. This, I gathered, was for the hirsute Arab men whose beards sometimes sprout outlying hairs high on their face. Rami apparently did not notice that I have no beard and therefore no outlying hairs, because before I could say babyface he had that string on me. At least I can say my cheeks are exfoliated, and it even brought out a nice blush. Thanks, Rami!

Lastly came the scissoring on the top. When it was done, he sent me over to his helper who gives you a post-cut wash. Below is a short clip of me leaving the hairwashing nook (Bob accidently switched the camera from snapshot to movie mode):

Of course, no Palestinian barbershop visit is complete without a little gel. Rami keeps a coffee can-size tub of it on his counter, and I had watched the clients ahead of me dip their fingers into it and work their hair until it was just right. As I walked out Rami invited me to "Have some gel," so I dipped my two fingers in, slicked back my hair and strutted all the way home.