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…