February 4, 2010: the haircut

In my rush in December to catch a cab to catch a train to catch the AirTrain to catch the plane home (that I nearly missed), I forgot something... my trip to the city for a haircut. The last two weekends at Webb were too busy to go get my hair cut, and I even considered waiting until I got home. Any chance of getting it done at home was smashed when I learned that my preferred barbershop at Shabangs had "burned down."

Eh. I've grown my hair out to ridiculous lengths before (Kirk's head is nodding in agreement), but I had to do something about it today.

Enter the curious dramatis personae. I began looking for a barbershop online on Monday in preparation for mum's Sunday night arrival. Search string after search string wasn't producing results. I had some tough constraints. I didn't want to go to Dubai for a haircut, and I wanted the place to be someone reputable. I eventually gave up searching online and decided to ask the front desk.

"Rola! You want to go to Rola," replied the man at the front desk with a heavy Pakistani accent. I asked him what and where was Rola, but he just pointed me towards the bellman. After some exchange between the two, the doorman hailed a taxi, rattled off a directive for the driver, shoved me in the front seat, closed the door, and away I zoomed for "Rola."

The ride was thankfully short -- mostly because we sped around all of the other cars. After pulling up to a high rise's dirt parking lot, the driver turned off the meter and waved towards the "salon" entrance. I looked above the door; I couldn't see a sign that said "Rola." The driver obviously sensed my skepticism and walked me to the door. The manager was inside talking to a lobby of employees -- no other customers. The taxi driver confirmed that the "salon" was open and facilitated the start of my haircut.

"Do you speak English?" the manager asked as he gazed around the room. "Oh, well, then I will translate." One of the stylists stepped forward, and I stammered to describe what I wanted done to my head. The manager called for a catalog. "Here, point at a picture." My confidence continued to shrink. None of the pictures looked quite like what I would normally have done. I settled on one but emphasized that I wanted it to be slightly longer.

I sat down, and my non-English speaking barber started clipping. Hair fell in every direction. As my hair began to take a new shape, I started to relax. Mid sigh of relief, it was over. The barber had done a nice job, and I was pleased with his work.

Now to checkout. Back at the hotel, I was thrust into the taxi before I had a chance to exchange more US dollars for UAE dirhams. I only had 30 dirhams after I paid the taxi driver, but the $70 that could become 210 dirhams was sitting in my pocket. The receptionist asked me if this was my first visit. He reduced the price of my haircut to 50 dirhams from 80 dirhams. PANIC. I slowly took out my bank notes knowing that I didn't have enough. "Do you take credit cards? US Dollars?"

The receptionist smiled and asked me how much I had. "For you, 30 dirhams is enough." I apologized and told him that I would return again. I rushed out of the salon feeling terrible about shortchanging the salon 50 dirhams.

I was "broke," so I couldn't take a taxi back to the hotel. It was a nice walk, albeit a humid one. I decided to walk through the local neighborhood rather than sticking to the main roads. Old neighborhoods in Sharjah are laid out like staggered bricks. Unlike the strict New York City blocks, the streets zig-zag their way from the highway to the beach. I darted along through the neighborhood pretending to know my way.

Pretending being the key word. Shortly after going deep into the neighborhood, I realized that I was much farther away from my hotel than I had originally perceived. In the distance, I could see the radio tower that is near the beach. I searched the horizon for more familiar sights. Mosque minarets dotted the neighborhood skyline. Aha! I recognized the minaret that rises from a mosque near Scott's villa. I started making my way towards the minaret, Scott's villa, and the road back to my hotel, the minaret as my guide the whole way.

There, that's my short plug for Islam. Muslims believe that Islam was the first religion, and devout followers accept no other religion. In fact, a follower from another religion who converts to Islam is said to "revert to Islam." (This is another reason why it is of the highest shame to convert to another religion.) No worries, I won't be "reverting" any time soon.

Now, I'm going to go clean the loose hair out of my ears. I guess that feeling is the same no matter where you get your hair cut.

Posted in: anticipation,culture,sharjah