I've just got back from my first trip to a barber without glasses (me without glasses, not the barber). I'd forgotten how scary it was to see a haircut halfway through. I used to just sit and watch the blurred colours and shapes until my glasses were given back for me to approve that which, by that point, I'd no other choice but to approve. This time, however, I could see the full progress. Internal conversations went from "that's a bit short" to "can you put the phone down and focus?" to "WHAT THE FUCK HAVE YOU DONE?!??!" to "Oh I see, that's clever".
I went back to Ahmet, my teenage barber with the face of an olive-skinned Spike Lee (go figure) and the voice of a chain smoking octogenarian. He wasn't his usual self today though. His coiffurial performance was somewhat lackluster. Conversationally, however, he was considerably cruder than normal.
The topic of the day was how he'd spent the previous weekend sodomising his girlfriend to near paraplegia. "She couldn't walk for a week" he boasted with a rasp. Congratulations. Why don't you break her arms as well? "You have to give them a healthy fuck otherwise they'll cheat. Do you ever fuck them so hard that you start hitting them?", can't say I have but it's nice to know I'm in safe hands as you wave that razor around my jugular.
I tried to fake sleep but he'd just lean in a whisper bad things in my ear. To be perfectly honest, I was happy when we reached the final geling (though he spent a couple of minutes describing how to use hair gel as a lubricant - complete with gesticulation).
I will be monitoring Ahmet's social decline carefully. It may be time to seek another barber.