I had been a little dissatisfied by my hair becoming unmanageable. I was still lamenting the loss of The Hair Dresser of Bangsar, but this morning decided that I have to trim my locks.
Walking around this neighbourhood in Bruselas, one comes across very many hair salons. I tried to look at them anthropologically and see whether I should trust my locks to the scissors of these sartorial artists or villains.
First was a plump Chinese Lady who was attending to elderly women; then was an elderly belgian lady dreaming of the things past and the third one was a brusque blond of her own making, she said, Today? No way! I made my way to my favourite coffee shop which was just a few metres away. I chatted with the owner and she said, just to the left on Rue Archimede there is a salon and there ask for Jennifer. I opened the door, a maghrebienne with pleasant manners greeted me and said, no, Jennifer is off today. Is there someone else free? Yes.. Out comes a fit looking man in his forties, bald but a fierce moustache well trimmed that one sees only in magazines or historical novels.
I speak a Little French but a lot of English and Spanish, I told him to break the ice; he sternly looked at me and said.. French, we proceeded to talk about the length and other peculiarities of my locks.
I could see he was professional, he spoke French without no accent so I dared ask him: are you belge or francais? No sir, I am Iranian, was the reply.
That made me very happy of course..
But how to break the ice with this silent oriental man with a historic moustache?
Shanameh?
Hafez?
I saw a smile coming over his face but he did no more than acknowledge the fact.It is well known that any Iranian worth his salt knows who they are.
My father used to work in Abadan, at another time, I mentioned. I am from Tehran, was the reply.
I gave up on him, and began observing his manners at his chosen profession and soon realized I was dealing with a man who knows what to do with hair. As the minutes wore on, he was cutting as if he was conducting an orchestra, I became more and more pleased with the outcome. He also took care of my coolie eyebrows and asiatic hair on the ears. The chubby magrebienne also seemed to be pleased with the result.
I study transactions of symbols in everyday life by human beings and to be able to transact well guarantees you success in your social and professional life.
I realized that my mentioning Shanameh and Hafez to him, he had to make a mental note that the brain beneath the hair he was attending to it, is somewhat eccentric than the usual brains that comes through his salon!
and of course, which Iranian would not be pleased with the name of Hafez?
As I was preparing to pay, I asked him, in my most polite French
What do you call yourself?
Dariush
The emperor, Persopolis, I replied.. I could see a smile coming upon his thin lips bearing the weight of the heavy but well trimmed oriental moustache..
Thank you Hafez.. Because of you, I had a nice hair cut today!
Walking around this neighbourhood in Bruselas, one comes across very many hair salons. I tried to look at them anthropologically and see whether I should trust my locks to the scissors of these sartorial artists or villains.
First was a plump Chinese Lady who was attending to elderly women; then was an elderly belgian lady dreaming of the things past and the third one was a brusque blond of her own making, she said, Today? No way! I made my way to my favourite coffee shop which was just a few metres away. I chatted with the owner and she said, just to the left on Rue Archimede there is a salon and there ask for Jennifer. I opened the door, a maghrebienne with pleasant manners greeted me and said, no, Jennifer is off today. Is there someone else free? Yes.. Out comes a fit looking man in his forties, bald but a fierce moustache well trimmed that one sees only in magazines or historical novels.
I speak a Little French but a lot of English and Spanish, I told him to break the ice; he sternly looked at me and said.. French, we proceeded to talk about the length and other peculiarities of my locks.
I could see he was professional, he spoke French without no accent so I dared ask him: are you belge or francais? No sir, I am Iranian, was the reply.
That made me very happy of course..
But how to break the ice with this silent oriental man with a historic moustache?
Shanameh?
Hafez?
I saw a smile coming over his face but he did no more than acknowledge the fact.It is well known that any Iranian worth his salt knows who they are.
My father used to work in Abadan, at another time, I mentioned. I am from Tehran, was the reply.
I gave up on him, and began observing his manners at his chosen profession and soon realized I was dealing with a man who knows what to do with hair. As the minutes wore on, he was cutting as if he was conducting an orchestra, I became more and more pleased with the outcome. He also took care of my coolie eyebrows and asiatic hair on the ears. The chubby magrebienne also seemed to be pleased with the result.
I study transactions of symbols in everyday life by human beings and to be able to transact well guarantees you success in your social and professional life.
I realized that my mentioning Shanameh and Hafez to him, he had to make a mental note that the brain beneath the hair he was attending to it, is somewhat eccentric than the usual brains that comes through his salon!
and of course, which Iranian would not be pleased with the name of Hafez?
As I was preparing to pay, I asked him, in my most polite French
What do you call yourself?
Dariush
The emperor, Persopolis, I replied.. I could see a smile coming upon his thin lips bearing the weight of the heavy but well trimmed oriental moustache..
Thank you Hafez.. Because of you, I had a nice hair cut today!
