Well, I sent my razor home, and it came time for me to get a hair cut, so I ventured out into the wild yonder, and found a little Turkish barber shop on post. What a wild experience. Maybe they do this at all Barber shops. I guess I can't really say, because I never go, but here's what happened.
First I sat down, and in barber speak mixed with TurkEnglish, I got the point across that I want it short on the sides and a two on the top. That's what I always do. And it works out pretty well in the sweltering heat here. Well, he buzzes a neat line with his trimmer all the way around my head. Then he pulled out an old-school horror-flick razor to take it all the way down to the skin. Well... that sure was neat, and an exercise in faith.
Then he cuts the rest like normal, gradually buzzing from nothing to next to nothing to the two on the top. He does a nice job, and when he's don,e he coats me with lemon-smelling aftershave... actually, I smell exactly like Pledge-- the stuff you dust wood furniture with. He then grabs the my jaw and the back of my head, and before I know what's going on, he yanks and cracks my neck. I thought I was murdered right there, and wondered why he didn't just use the razor blade. He goes to grab my head and jaw on the other side to even me out, and I say... uhh... no thanks.
Next he dunks a cotton swab into alcohol and lights in on fire. Then he flicks in on my ears to remove the peach fuzz... I'm not sure what that's all about. Was the peach fuzz really that unattractive? I mean... I've seen some gues with some craaaaaazy ear hair, but I was never self-conscious about mine... until now.
I get done, and ask him how much it costs. Six dollars, sir. Well, I guess it's not so bad to pay six dollars for a story.