It's really a question...

of which is more embarrassing...

- Someone pointing out your mistake.

- Walking to the bus stop, standing for 15 minutes, riding the bus for 10 minutes, walking to work along a busy street, entering the school and saying hello to the security guard, talking with the woman who brings tea to my office, walking to the restroom, and discovering that my fly is unzipped.

My first good haircut in Turkey...

... was followed immediately by my worst, by about six weeks.

I wish I had a camera to show it off, but then, I was actually so embarrassed by it, that I took the long way back to the hotel, through an alley from the barber's, and then, a construction site. I doubt it would have occurred to me to take a picture. I have found a limit to my self-deprecating sense of irony.

I don't know why I can't get a good haircut here, generally, because I have the vocab and always explain what I want. In June, I went to a place near the hotel, and felt dumb for doing so when I was charged 20 YTL for the cut. On reflection, in the mirror, I realized that the barber had done a perfect job: not too short, not cut like a soldier's hair, layered on the sides, reasonable bangs... it was... nice to look at, fitting my personal aesthetic and demanding no attention whatsoever.

Until, it needed to be cut again.

I figured, I had gotten what I paid for, the haircut I wanted.

Never before had I had that in Turkey. I even once cut my hair myself, with a beard trimmer, because I couldn't rationalize paying 5 YTL for another Amerıkalı saç tıraşı, the 'American haircut', the one that makes me look like I'm a Marine. Lately, I've been in the habit of fixing each trim at home with the same beard trimmer.

Nothing against Marines... I just don't want to look like one.

This, I always thought should be simple, but over and over again, I got the same result, no matter what I asked from a barber. If I insisted my hair be kept long, or asked for "just a trim off the top", the result was always the same. Sometimes, barbers would even sneak up on me, and achieve the crew-cut effect with scissors, what the electric clippers could do in a quarter of the time. Just so long as they gave me the Amerıkalı saç tıraşı, which must be what they thought I really wanted, even though I never said it.

Thus, I was so happy with my haircut of eight weeks ago, that I returned to the same barber, fully prepared to pay another 20 YTL. I don't care if that's too much, or even if they were ripping me off. You must understand, in my quest to maximize utility, my lowered expectations had finally found an appropriate balance of price and quality.

Something went wrong...

The barber who had cut my hair previously was busy, but we made eye contact on my arrival. I read in his gaze that I could trust the other barber to do the same, fine job he had done, the job I would ask for after sitting down, and the job this new barber actually began doing. In fact, it is the same, fine job, of the first barber, but with a tragic or ironic twist.

Actually, with a totally tragic faux-hawk twist.

One must understand, the Turkish barber shop culture is about comfort. The barber didn't just trim my hair. He shampooed and conditioned my hair, twice. He massaged my face and shoulders with lemon cologne. He lulled me into a sense of security, a feeling of comfort, and I let down my guard. Then, while my eyes were closed, he attacked me with hair gel, a blow drier, and then hairspray.

Having not used 'product' on my hair, since high school, I thought, "let's see how the pros do it".

There is a logical fallacy in abdicating one's habitually simple desires to the whims of 'experts'. These same experts lead the way in fashion trends that I never follow, advertising campaigns for products I never buy, and are the same people who brought us Crystal Pepsi.

The mistake was short-lived. Though I didn't have the courage to tell the barber to wash it all out, ten minutes later, I was in my hotel room doing just that.

Getting what you want, even if it isn't that complicated, can truly be an adventure in a foreign country. From now on, I'm trusting my hair to the beard trimmer.

The Popped Collar and the Kentucky Waterfall

I don't follow fashion, cause frankly, if you have seen me dress myself, I obviously don't have the eye for it. My mother drilled me with the basics: I shouldn't wear brown shoes with a black belt (or black and brown together generally)... there was something else about dark clothes after labor day. OK, maybe I only know one thing about fashion.

Sorry, Mom.

I do know when someone is making a grave mistake, and the two realms listed in the title are growing in popularity in Turkey, among certain groups, and worth examining.

First, the popped collar. Where I come from, it is a hard look to pull off, even with irony in mind. Something about it screams "TOOL". So, imagine my surprise when I got into the elevator last night with a twenty-something kid next to me, his green polo outfitted for... well, I don't know what, really. I assumed he was American, and the blank look I received in return for the question "What part of the states are you from?", left me shocked.

It also brought back the memory of a poor choice made by a former room mate, Mustafa.

Some years back, a Spanish soccer player stepped onto the pitch with the newest look in futbol. My room mate was determined to have this variation of an old theme. Wikipedia describes it thusly:

The Spanish mullet is generally shorter and lighter than a classic mullet, only using the last inch or so of hair above the hairline.

The article fails to duly ridicule the look, but the rest of the internets accomplish that rather handily.

It took a great deal of work to change my Mustafa's mind (what is good for a futbol player is obviously good for any young male). We toured through these sites, and I enlisted an American woman to help convince him that it would ruin the good thing he had going.

This is one of those problems of coming at fashion from a different cultural background. I used to run at the Boğazici University track, sometimes when they were having American football practice. Huge guys, helmets, pads, who couldn't play for shit, but nonetheless looked the part, made me cringe. All my memories of asshole jocks came flooding back, and connected to things like popped collars, binge drinking, date rape, fraternities... twenty-two years in the states had tied those ideas together.

Imagine my shock when the football team was extra careful about staying out of my way when I was running. One player signaled to two others, who hadn't seen me coming, to make sure they cleared out of my lane.

Mullets and popped collars fall into the same category. They don't offer me the same information about class or social status that they can in the states. It's just another impersonation of something foreign.

All my prejudices are thrown off, and while this is probably a good thing, still... mullets?