An ode to my Turkish Barber

He sets my ears on fire and doesn’t say a word. To me, he represents self-care in the most London of ways.

It is a Thursday morning. I’m walking down Old Street in London, having just arrived off a plane from Amsterdam, following a particularly delightful New Year’s celebration. I spot a gruff, well-coiffed man stares off into the middle distance. He drops a cigarette by his feet and thoughtfully exhales, a cloud of poison escaping his lungs. He steps on it, crushing the embers under his heel. To my surprise, he then bends over, picks it up again, and walks inside the door behind him.

For the briefest of moments, I was a fire-breathing dragon, with two small puffs of fire emanating from my nostrils.

Before the door fully closes, I catch it and follow him inside. He’s a barber at a Turkish barbershop. I’m a scruffy-haired customer.

“Got time for a walk-in?” I ask, eyes scurrying around the barbershop. A couple of people are engaged in conversation, having their hirsutity tended to.

He doesn’t say a word and points at an empty chair by the window. I take that as a ‘yes,’ as he offers me a thimble of Turkish tea by holding up the typical small glass vase used for traditional Turkish teas.

“One or two?” he asks. My eyes telegraph my confusion. “Sugars. One or two. For the tea.” I hold up one…