Osman, my barber!
Three old men are sitting outside Osman’s shop, smoking. Osman opens the glass door for me. His son Erdem adjusts the beautiful barber’s chair upholstered with light brown leather and hands a pair of scissors to his father. He sets to work – without asking me how I’d like it. That’s because he himself knows much better how it would look on me. No radio. Osman snips away with his scissors and stays silent. It’s a comfortable silence. It all feels quite natural.
I don’t like going to the hairdresser. I don’t sleep well the night before. Because I don’t know what to say when I’m asked about the hairstyle I want. Because I feel trapped. Because I feel undignified with my hair combed down wet. Because I panic about small talk. And how are things at your end? The children? The weather, yes, yes. And the annoying blare from the radio. And because I panic about the mirror moment when it’s done. And the inevitable question: do you like it?
After I moved to Istanbul, I was told I simply had to go to a barber, that they were true craftsmen. All right, I thought, maybe I’ll get over my haircut phobia there. Now I’m sitting with Osman. At some point, he asks curtly: “Jilet?” Erdem translates: shave? I nod. The son passes hot water, the father dips the brush in it, then in the prepared foam, before lathering my face with it. It stings for a moment, before giving way to pleasant warmth. Osman applies the sharp blade and there’s a soft scraping sound. It’s a quiet, dignified moment. I suddenly understand the majesty that such a craft can exude.
A craft that’s held in the highest regard in Turkey. If you’re a barber, that means you’re somebody. A barber is a trusted man, a proud caretaker, an honourable soul. Perhaps like a good barman in more western climes.
I almost forget the mirror moment that’s sure to come – along with the question: do you like it? But neither come to pass. Instead, the three old men come in and stand behind me. They scrutinise Osman’s work.
“Çok güzel!”, one of them says at length. The others murmur in agreement. So do I. I already want to make another appointment, which is something I never do. But Osman beats me to it, speaks, and the son translates again: “See you in a fortnight.” I nod – and am looking forward to it. Osman, my barber!
Lenz Koppelstätter is a bestselling author who also writes for the Frankfurter Allgemeine Sonntagszeitung and Salon. He currently lives in Istanbul.
This column also appears in the current print edition of 30 Grad Magazine – available for free subscription here.