Four magic words

“Boss, pendek, tamau cukur.”

Then it’s just sitting back without a care in the world. I’m in safe hands.

For the past 10 odd years (I’m that old), getting a haircut has been an uneventful, safe routine back home.

Then I arrived in Dublin.

I’m not used to being pampered with a hair dryer. I get easily impressed with the fact he uses more than one type of scissors. There’s even ‘neck tape’ to make sure my hair doesn’t fall into my t-shirt.

Then he asks,

“How would you like your hair cut?”

“Short and neat,” I answered

“Well, can you be more specific?”

I panic. No I can’t be more specific. You’re the barber. You tell me!

“Em, use your imagination,” as I looked at him hoping for sympathy.

...............

It took more than an hour. He seemed reluctant to chop off my “soft, curly” hair, continually asking whether I was sure that I wanted it short.

At the end, I thanked him and paid off the 8 euro I owed. I left the ‘salon’ looking like a schoolboy. Urgh.

I miss home.

Oh, I finished the friggin essay.

High five!