I wandered through
the medina for a few hours and came out on the northern end; I was in a large
modern commercial district. After a few minutes, I walked past an old-fashioned
barber shop. My hair was getting a little long so I went in for a cut. The shop
was small and narrow. There was room enough for two old-fashioned barber's
chairs and a pair of plastic seats for waiting customers. The shop already had
one customer, a big Arab man in his 40s. He was heavy-set, like a bouncer, and
had his shirt halfway off. He was getting cut, but not in his hair.
The barber and his
customer chatted amicably in Arabic. They greeted me in French and asked me to
have a seat. The man's shirt was draped over his left shoulder. His right side
was exposed, but I couldn't see it from my vantage point. The man groaned and
massaged his right shoulder. The barber found a small glass and rinsed it out
in the sink. He wadded up some tissue in his hand and lit it with a match. He
put the burning tissue into the glass. He stood behind his customer and watched
the tissue burn. Just before it burned completely out, he put the lip of the
glass on the man's back near his shoulder blade. The man grunted. I could not
for the life of me figure out what they were doing.
The barber kept
the glass against the man's back for about three minutes. When he detached it,
the man gave a heavy sigh and rotated his arm. The barber showed me the glass;
it held about a quarter-cup of blood. The man smiled at the glass. He looked
relaxed. The two of them explained it to me in French. I caught little
snippets: “lots of blood” “tight muscles” “lots of pain” “take blood” “relaxed”
and “no pain, no pain.” I averted my eyes to the floor. Along with the locks of
previous customers' hair, I noticed drops of dried blood.
The barber swabbed
the wound with alcohol and put a sterile bandage on it. Now it was time for the
left side. The big man took his shirt completely off and I got to see the whole
procedure. First the barber took a straight razor and made little cuts near the
shoulder blade. None of them were very deep; only a few gave up a drop or two
of blood. He made about thirty cuts, all of them grouped in a small circle.
As before he put
burning tissue into the glass and cupped it over the incisions. Then I
understood what the burning tissue was for. As the fire burned out, the cooling
air in the glass made a vacuum. The skin on the man's back was pulled into the glass.
A little bubble of flesh rose up in the glass and started to bleed. The man
groaned. The barber advised him to raise his arm. He lifted his hand above his
head and moved his arm in circles. Each time his arm reached the top of its
rotation, the bubble in the cup gave up a little blood. The barber put his hand
of the man's head and moved it forward, back and side-to-side. More blood
streamed into the cup. The barber lowered the glass and with a barely audible
pop it came off. The man leaned forward and put his head in his hands. He
looked at me, gave me a thumbs up, and said, “Tres bien.” I smiled.
The barber rinsed
out the glass and bandaged his customer. The man put his shirt back on gave the
barber a hug. He went out and said something to me in French. The barber mopped
up the floor and asked me to take a seat.
I didn't get a
bleeding. Just a haircut for me, thank you. My haircut is really simple. It's a
military-style buzz cut--number 3 razor on top, number 2 on the sides. With my
limited language skills, I can't say, “Cut it clean over the ears, part it on
the left, and sweep the top back.” But I can hold up three fingers and point to
the top of my head. The barber did a pretty good job. I thought about asking
for a shave. But I thought, if I pointed toward the razor, he might
misunderstand and start cutting into my back.
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