The joy of the Turkish barber

Just as you always hope will happen, I knew I had met the man of my dreams almost on sight. I had made a booking the day before. I arrived. Burak was just finishing the previous customer and gestured with a comb towards an armchair. A Turkish coffee was brought. The customer paid and left and I took his place in the chair before the mirror. ‘Now, sir,’ Burak said, with an ingratiating formality not quite his own. ‘What can I…’

But as he was asking about the haircut, the nervous pale English boy at the next station in the barber’s interrupted. ‘Er, Burak,’ he said, tremulously. ‘I wonder, er, would you mind if I borrowed your…’ ‘Nah,’ Burak said, all ingratiation gone in a fierce flash. ‘Nah. Fuck off.’ He turned to me. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he said. ‘But he is. He’s a fucking thief. Now. What can I do for you?’ And I knew I had met the barber of my dreams.

I was some way into middle age when I discovered the joy of the Turkish barber, and the bracing rigour of the process. There are the hot towels over your face, twice; the circus trick of the twirling threads plucking your excess eyebrow; the flaming giant Q-tip batting at your earlobe and leaving a burnt-hair stench behind; the cut-throat razor, shaving the back of your neck as well as chin and, if you have a parting in your hair, they shave a 3mm parting, too.

And the two minutes of shoulder massage, both brutal and oddly perfunctory. There are technical discussions involved – Lord, the discussions about moustache wax I’ve had. It costs £60, but you need to find the right Turkish man.