Mission Accomplished

My only immediate goal upon arrival in Cairo was finding a qualified barber to shear the shag carpet I call my hair. Call it a rite of passage, having your hair cut by a guy who doesn’t speak the same language as you, but it is a must-do for anyone that doesn’t care about how their hair looks.

After repeated strolls through the neighborhood failed to produce even a semblance of a hair-cutting/shaving industry, I expanded my search to include an alleyway just off a major artery. What did I find, but a small two-seater shop protected by the shadows and from the “sheet metal ballet (thanks for that analogy, Dad)” that is Cairo traffic.

The barber obviously recognized my need for a trim because he called out to me from a good ten metres away. Thinking to myself, “Hmm…dark, secluded barber shop? This is definitely a good idea,” I agreed and followed the man inside. He sat me down and we began negotiating a price. Twenty pounds (four dollars CDN) was his initial offer…way too high, or so I thought. As a counter, I pulled out five pounds and placed it on the counter in front of me. Then the yelling started.

“La, la, la, la, la, la… (no, no….), twenty,” he commanded.
“Ha. Five.” Things were starting to get fun.
“No, no, twenty *inaudible Arabic*”
“Five. There is no way it is twenty.” I then put the five pound note on the counter in front of me and pretended like I was leaving.
I didn’t get much of a chance to go anywhere. As soon as my butt was off the seat, the barber wrapped is hands around my upper arm with a force similar to an osprey ripping apart a salmon with its claws. He also grabbed at the money in my hand and shouted, all the while having a hard time keeping the smile off his face.

Eventually he took the five pounds and set about doing what he does best. When he finished on side to my liking, he turned to a boy of no more than fourteen lurking in the corner. Some Arabic ensued between the two and then the barber left, saying, “Boy, number one,” on the way out.

While overly meticulous, the boy had some skill. He keenly worked away cutting every stray hair with deft precision, while occasionally peering over at the Arabic music video playing on the TV (he sang a bit as well). Halfway through, the barber came back and, I’m assuming, told the boy to stop until I paid an extra five pounds. I found out later that ten is normal for a haircut, so paying the extra five wasn’t a problem.

When he was done with the sides, he was under the impression that he was done. I don’t know what it is about Indian and Egyptian barbers, but they like to keep the top long and the sides short. Frankly, it looks horrible, so I had to persist that it be cut shorter. Unfortunately, I was running out of time, the hair cut had already lasted thirty to forty minutes, because I had to go feluda’ing (boat ride on the Nile).

All in all, not a bad haircut, but the front and back are still way too long. I managed to negotiate a shave price of five pounds, so stay tuned for a brand new installment of Razor Ramblings tomorrow. I’m really excited about that.