I thought it would be a routine barber appointment. I was wrong. Little did I know that one hour later, my soul would feel like it was leaving my body, and my eyes would be shedding tears they had never shed before.
It had been over a month since my last haircut. The look wasn't too terrible, maybe on par with a pre-homeless appearance. But it was time for some grooming.
I didn't have a regular barber. My last haircut was in Brazil, courtesy of my mom's hairdresser. Before that, I had my hair done in a Turkish shop in England, where they inserted a burning stick into my ears. I also got haircuts in Poland, Israel, Italy, and various places across the United States. Now, here I was in Paris, still without an official "coiffeur."
During a casual stroll, I did what anyone in my situation would do—I entered the first barbershop I came across. In the past, this approach had resulted in little to no repercussions. However, this time, things would be different. The sign on the wall read "Barber Bros." Little did I know that my life was about to change forever.
As I stepped through the door, a gentleman greeted me with a warm "bonjour" and handed me a cup of espresso, which was even more generous. I thought this was shaping up to be a five-star experience right from the beginning. The gentleman quickly assigned me to my barber, a young fellow named Bilau. As I took my seat, I explained that my knowledge of the local language was not that great. To my surprise, Bilau himself spoke very little French. This left no room for small talk, only big misunderstandings.
Fortunately, Bilau's friends at the salon came to the rescue. One of them spoke Spanish, and another knew a bit of English. They would serve as the intermediaries between Bilau and the fate of my hair and beard. And so, we embarked on an adventure, a multilingual exercise in communication that had close to zero chance of success.
Through his interpreters, Bilau asked me what type of haircut style I wanted. I began by explaining, in broken French, that I was looking for something traditional and classic. Just a slight trim for the hair and beard, nothing too crazy or extreme. Unfortunately, he didn't understand a word I said, and it seemed that the translation team didn't grasp much of it either. So, I tried again in Spanish and finally in English. But they still didn't understand.
In my desperation, I made the grave mistake of using a French expression I had learned many years ago, in a completely different context. I looked deep into Bilau's eyes and said with conviction, "Carte blanche, mon ami." My barber still didn't get it, but the multilingual group knew exactly what I meant this time. "You can do whatever you want, Bilau," they told him in Arabic, with the biggest smile I've ever seen.
Bilau was in heaven. Like Edward Scissorhands, he wielded his tools and went to work on my hair as if he were engaged in a synchronized dance. Within the first minute, he grabbed a razor from his drawer and, before I could even comprehend what was happening, he shaved off 90% of my beard. I could no longer recognize myself in the mirror. I looked like a cross between a chicken, a Galapagos turtle, and my grandfather's... well, you get the picture.
But my misery had only just begun
Despite the beard catastrophe, Bilau surprisingly did a good job with my hair. He then called his translator over to deliver a cryptic message. "Would you like the special treatment?" Bilau's friend asked on his behalf. Caught off guard and not knowing what to expect, I couldn't muster any response other than a hesitant "Yes." I had no idea what I had just agreed to. At that point, it could have been something amazing, a peculiar ritual, a painful ordeal, or a combination of all three. Little did I know it was about to get worse.
With my informal consent, the Special Treatment Department (STD) quickly sprang into action. The immediate sequence of events was surprisingly pleasant. A hot towel was draped over my face, followed by the application of a soothing vanilla cream. Then came a delightful head and shoulder massage. Everything seemed perfect—almost too good to be true. And, indeed, it was.
And then came the grand finale.
As I relaxed and started to believe that the entire ordeal had been worthwhile, Bilau reached for a black metal tin connected to an electric socket on the wall. Inside, a thick caramel-looking liquid simmered. I could tell it was boiling. "Wax okay?" asked the translator. Instead of uttering the only words I should have said ("No, thanks"), I foolishly nodded. And that's when Bilau took a wooden spatula, scooped a generous amount of melting wax, and began spreading it on my face, creating a line for my beard where no hair would grow for the next two months, as he explained.
At that moment, the anticipation of pain crept in, but I consoled myself by thinking that it couldn't be worse than what women have endured for generations with waxing their armpits, legs, and other delicate areas. It would just be a minor discomfort on the skin of my face, I reassured myself. After all, I considered myself an honorable man who could handle a little pain.
Little did I know what Bilau had in store for me? He did the unthinkable. He took four pieces of cotton buds, loaded them with scorching hot wax, and swiftly shoved them into my nostrils before I could even comprehend what was happening. Panic set in, and my heart started skipping beats.
Three agonizing minutes later, Bilau was ready to execute his next move. As the wax dried, he grabbed hold of the sticks and pulled them out with such velocity and force that I felt a searing pain. I couldn't help but cry out, yet I pretended to Bilau that everything was fine. I lied. Nothing was fine. Bilau had not only robbed me of my nose hairs but also my dignity, my soul, and my spirit. I cried while attempting to feign composure. Good Lord, what had just happened? It was pain at the highest level.
Tears streamed down my face, mingling with the remnants of wax. I had shed both tears and nose hair. I was left feeling both clean and broken. Bilau had taken my waxing virginity.
The next few minutes became a blur. Bilau's work was done. I rose from the chair, paid for the experience, and swiftly left the barbershop. My heart continued its irregular rhythm, my brain felt numb, and my nose had a peculiar sensation of nakedness. Not a single hair remained. I had been violated. And, somehow, like a victim of Stockholm syndrome, I knew deep down that I would probably return for more.
Quite a journey. Better yet your own hair odyssey!
😂🙌🏼