Jim's haircut day

Date: Apr 29, 2010
After wandering around the Souk while we were in Marrakesh I wanted to get my hair cut and found a little shop with an old man shaving heads. I sat down and waited my turn when a look around revealed that there was nothing but his straight edge. No clippers, no scissors, nada. Even in my addled state I
realized that he didn’t do haircuts, only shaves. I’ve been six months getting my hair back to normal length after my free fall and I wasn’t ready to start all over again. The shaved head looks good on my son-in-law, but I wasn’t ready for it. I actually had my head shaved in Amman Jordan when I was traveling the first time. I had gone “swimming” in the Dead Sea and gotten some kind of fungus on my scalp. I couldn’t get rid of it with continual washing and decided to have it shaved, hoping that the sunlight would kill the bacteria. It worked, and I did the Yul Brynner thing until it grew back.

However, I wasn’t ready for a repeat act, so I left the shop. I’ve had my eye out for a real barber shop, and found one in the city of Larache on the African coast. It was a two chair shop, but with only one barber. He was shaving another man. I sign-languaged that I wanted a cut, he nodded and so we waited. The TV blared an Arabic program and the barber, a young man of about 25 carefully shaved the man. The shop was about 8 feet wide and twice as long. Filled with all the requisite photos and pictures. There are always several pictures of the King, some paintings of Moroccan landscapes or indigenous peoples, usually of a Morocco in a past age.

There was a large electric display of a waterfall scene, much like you used to find in a Friday afternoon watering hole we teachers haunted to complain about administrators.” Hamm’s, from the land of sky blue waters,” the sign would say, and the picture would seemingly portray water cascading over the falls. I remember that they always seemed more realistic the more beer I drank.

When it was my turn, he motioned me to the chair. It was of vintage stock. The padding had long since lost any level of comfort. The leather covering was taped together with that clear packing tape guaranteed to stand the most rigorous of tests, and arm rests that were bare metal. Since Carol and I were the only ones in the barber shop he went to the TV and changed it to the only English channel available here, a small sign of his awareness that this was something different. He used only scissors, no clippers, although he had one. He took care as if this were important. A young man came in who was obviously friends with the barber. He sat in the other chair, but was soon dispatched with the equivalent of a dime. He returned soon with a package of razor blades. I was getting the full treatment here. No used blades for me. Soon another man came in and then another until all chairs were filled. The conversation was quite lively. We figured out that they thought we were Spanish, and told them we were Americans. “Ahhh,” they replied. There seemed to be a lot of banter about how to cut the hair, whether anybody spoke Spanish, and who knows what else. Somebody seemed to want to know why they had to listen to English on the TV and the barber was insistent that things were being done on his terms. One man seemed particularly vocal and the barber looked at me and said: “Loco.” We’ve heard that term before here. Seems to be universal. Carol sat on the couch and filmed much of the operation. All in all, he did a good job, and it doesn’t need any “Repair” as they sometimes have in the past. It was another wonderful moment that I enjoyed very much.

I did cause a major scurry the other day when we were looking for a hotel in a small town and people kept telling us the general direction to go. After going round and round and winding back at the same place, I thought we were at the building and so decided to ask in a beauty shop (the only place that seemed to have life). The door was 2/3 open and I stuck my head inside. Well, you’d have thought I had a bomb in my hands. Women ran in all directions. They were “Uncovered” (without head shawls) and thought they were safe from male invasion until some dumb American who clearly didn’t understand the rules entered their private world. I couldn’t say, “Excuse me, I’m sorry, Pardon” fast enough or often enough as I hastily retreated to the other side of the doorway. Soon a women “Covered” came out to direct me. She let me know it wasn’t a real problem, but I quickly learned something I probably should have known. I wasn’t invited in. Even though in my Western mind, it was just a shop, it wasn’t. It was a Arabic women’s shop, and that’s a whole different deal. Lesson learned.

Naturally, I haven’t wanted to drive any more in town than has been absolutely necessary and so we’ve taken taxis whenever we want to get from point a to point b/c/d or e. They’re cheap and everywhere because they are so inexpensive. They are easy to spot because each town has its own distinctive color for their taxis. We’ve seen blue, red, yellow, green throughout Morocco. In Marrakesh they were this off beige, as Carol called it. I thought it looked like some color a husband would pick when he wanted to surprise his with wife with his ingenuity and painted the living room while she was gone, only to have her come home and say: “Oh my god, you didn’t”.

Prior to our coming here, there was some concern about our traveling to an “Arab” country. The feeling was that we wouldn’t be welcomed and that we were putting ourselves at risk to a certain extent. Both Carol and I feel very strongly that the absolute opposite has been the case. We’ve been warmly greeted throughout Morocco and not once have we felt in the slightest bit of danger or even any level of discomfort (except for driving, but that goes without saying). In our entire stay, smiling faces, pleasant greetings and helpful individuals have made our sojourn here all the more enjoyable. Consistently people have gone out of their way to point us in the right direction, given us helpful advice, and generally been the perfect hosts. We were not strangers in a strange land. But rather were met with a consistent,“ Welcome.” The worst reaction I would say would be the occasional benign indifference, but generally the absolute opposite was the case. “Where are you from?” “Etas Unis,” (US), “Ah, which state?” “Washington” “Ah, the capital.” “No, the Washington state, on the other side.” “Oh, yes, welcome to Morocco.” This was the general gist of the beginnings of conversations. Sometimes in French, occasionally in English. But faces brightened through our journey when we passed people who would look at us with curiosity and we met that look with “Saalam a leikum.” The Arabic greeting. You’d have thought we just told them they won the lottery. Saying “Shucron” instead of “thank you” or “merci” again brightened many a face on our trip.

As far as being in any type of danger, not once did we feel, “Oh, Oh, we shouldn’t be here.” We both felt safer here than we would walking in downtown Stockton after dark. Small alleys and dimly lit streets never failed to be anything but passageways out of fear which can paralyze us as human beings. Morocco is indeed an exotic land, full of places and peoples very different from visiting Paris or London, but it is no less worthy a destination. I would not hesitate in recommending it as a place to visit to anyone with an open heart and a desire to learn more about the world we all share. Tomorrow, it’s back to Tangier, turn the car back in and on Saturday return to Spain. Morocco was a destination I pushed for on the trip. Carol really wanted to go to Portugal and Southern Spain, and I couldn’t see being this close and not coming here. It’s safe to say we both enjoyed it immensely.

Until next time, we are

Carol and Jim