Nov 7, 2014: Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow
From time to time in our travels, I have needed a haircut. This poses a bit of an interesting problem. Most of the time, my hairdresser and I do not speak the same language. This leads to a few extremely simple requests from me (longer on top, shorter for the back and sides), and the hairdresser’s interpretation of what someone like me would want. And all they’ve really got to go on is my appearance. It’s clear that the last cut I had was some sort of short haircut, and from my attire, I’m certainly no business person they’ve seen before.
This leads to some interesting haircuts.
In Krakow, I found a little salon near the Old Town gates that seemed to be doing reasonable business. It wasn’t packed, but there was always at least one chair with a client in it. I also noted that none of their clientele seemed older than 40. Another good sign. (I have nothing against salons that cater to seniors, it’s just that everytime I come out of one with a short cut, I look like somebody’s mom after a makeover). She asked what I wanted and went to work.
The hairdresser played it safe and went with a very standard look. No complaints here, but nothing to rave about either.
Sarajevo, Bosnia & Herzegovina
It was a bit harder to find a salon that fit my needs in Sarajevo. There were plenty of hotel spa salon’s but nothing that begged me to go in. Then I came across Hairetic. A bold green sign with black lettering and graphics that screamed DESIGN. Of course, I had to go. I made an appointment with a 30-something Edo, the main and possibly only stylist there. It was his salon.
When I returned for my appointment, Edo sat me in his stylists chair and spent a few moments circling me and tousling my hair while he examined it. There was a sparkle in his eye as he rounded the chair and stood facing me.
“Let me do something Fresh, something New for you!” He stated more than asked in a thick German accent. His English was pretty good, but it was strange that he had a German accent in the first place, given he was Bosnian.
“Ok.” I said. I didn’t really need to think about it. He was clearly excited and I’ve never had a problem with letting a pro take the reigns when I comes to my hair.
“Really?” He was surprised. Edo must usual have to do more convincing to give someone something “Fresh.”
“Yes.” Before I finished speaking, Edo had an electric razor in his hand and was combing out my mop. All in all, a great haircut. It was edgy and easy to maintain. And it even looked great when I didn’t style it as intended.
It had been a few months since Edo’s cut, and I was starting to look a little shaggy (by my standards, anyway. When I mentioned getting a trim to my mother-in-law, she was perplexed. She couldn’t see how my hair could be any shorter). Just down the street from our flat in Istanbul we stumbled across a salon called “Bruno’s.” The front window had an saucy image of “Bruno” from the film of the same name across their front window. I had to get my cut there.
The gentleman who cut my hair spoke no English aside from “short” and “long,” but he find a photo on his phone of the haircut he wanted to give me. I appreciate the effort.
Another decent cut, even if it was a little harder to style than Edo’s. Good enough that the stylist even managed to sell me some hair product.