Beirut-- a Forgotten Moment

During the return flight from a recent trip to Arizona I wanted to save a document on the memory stick I have been carrying in my backpack for a while. When I opened the files on the memory stick, I found a few old drafts written during past travel. One of these drafts, saved as “Haircut” surprised me, as I realized that I had almost no recollection of writing it!! It was probably written during a trip to Asia, given the date of “July 1, 2009”.

So, I read, smiled, re-read and ran a spell-check.

The cacti of Arizona, strangely, seem appropriate for describing a barber shaving with a straight razor.  Here is the document:

I took the gardenia flower from the gardenia bush, and put it afloat upon the water which filled the clay pan.  The clay was of the color gardenia flowers become when they float too long in simple waters.  When they turn in rounds as I make little waves in the pan with my finger.  When gardenia flowers see the bush they were cut from and do wonder why.

I dripped a few drops of rosewater into the pan.  I like the mix of aromas between the bottled rosewater and the fresh gardenia flowers.  One seems to dream of the days when it was all roses; the other knows it was a flower a few hours ago but will never be a flower again.  When mixed, the room becomes rich in memories, one petal at a time.

… I still manage to find a quiet moment to sit next to the clay pan and make little waves with my index.  Then to run my wet finger upon my moustache, close my eyes and remember the West Beirut of the 1960s, when I used to go to Abu Kha’aled for a haircut.  I was a young lad and there was no need to discuss hair styling.  He knew only one—buzz cut.  Within minutes, he would run the clipper in ascending horizontal lanes upon my head and get the landscape he wanted. 

But, that was not why I remember these haircuts.  It was the ceremony after the cut—he would produce a boar’s bristles brush, put talcum powder upon my neck which he had shaved with a straight razor, gently sweep the powder away, and then dip his palm in the deep porcelain pot filled with water and floating gardenia flowers.  As I closed my eyes in anticipation of this ceremony, he would run his hand upon my now barely populated scalp and give a simple massage.  I have never forgotten the aroma of talcum powder, gardenia flowers, and the subtle smell of freshly cut hair.

…Then life changed; then civil war reared its unpleasant head.  Even Abu Kha’aled could not make that head look good, but he tried, in his own way.  He kept his barber shop open everyday.  He ignored bombs, snipers, or the hooligans now owning the streets.  He was there everyday, early, to shave faces he had known for years, talk politics, curse a bit, and then admire the pencil-drawn moustache he had managed to carve with his steady hands and German-bladed straight razor.  And, he would splash a handful of that gardenia and rose water potion, almost in a religious ceremonialism.

… That morning, the bombs fell close to the Mosque about 300 meters away from the barber shop.  It was the only business open that day, even the Armenian butcher had decided to stay home.  I was now a young man, and like a young man ignoring all dangers, I went to see Abu Kha’aled for a shave and some chatting.  He was alone in his marble-floored shop, smoking a cigarette.  His hair was heavily ointed with “BrylCreem”, which was very chic those days.

He said good morning, but not much more.  He pointed to the chrome and leather barber chair farthest from the glass door.  Then moved toward the door, took three fast and consecutive draws upon his beloved Du Maurier, coughed slightly, sprung the cigarette butt into the street, and came back to tend to my needs.

First, he washed his hand in the gardenia water.  Then he started rubbing my face with hot water from a Thermos bottle.  It was part of the ceremony to first soften those bristly facial hair, especially around the chin.  As he was doing this, I realized that I smelled the cigarette on his fingers rather than the gardenia flower.  I looked into the ceramic pot and there were no gardenia flowers there!  Instead, there was a miniscule green apple floating on the surface.

“I used all the gardenia flowers from my bush,” he said.  “I should get more in a couple of days.  For now, I will use this apple for both freshening the water, but also for you to hold it in your mouth and tighten your cheeks.”

And he gave me the apple to hold inside my mouth, shifting it right or left as he moved his blade.  A bomb fell pretty close.  “81 mm” he said without shaking his hand.  “That was close.  And they shot it from near by.”

And then, “Please do not eat the apple.  That is the only one I have for today.  Just take it out, I will wash it, and use it again if another customer shows up.”

… Nearly forty years have passed since that day.  My chin is now gray, and I do not let anyone shave my face.  I do not use aftershave; I do not rub my chin with hot water before shaving.  Yet, when the gardenias bush flowers, I think about Abu Kha’aled and his apple.  I now wonder how many others came to get shaved after I did, that day in West Beirut, when 81mm Howitzers were falling very close to the Mosque.

But mostly I wonder how many had used that apple before I did.

July 1, 2009

© Vahé Kazandjian, 2014