"How much for a shave and haircut?" I asked.
He seemed to understand my request. "Fifty".
"Too much." I replied and moved towards the door. He looked anxious and barred my way with raised, but placating hands. With no one else in sight, for a few seconds, I entertained the thought that barbers started young in Göreme. Then, amongst his words I picked up "patron" several times and inferred that he was an apprentice or shop minder and that I should await the arrival of the boss. I said "OK" and sat down. The boy then scooted out the door. A minute later a man appeared with the youth in tow.
We negotiated ten lire for a shave, twenty for a haircut and I sat down, banishing all thoughts of Sweeney Todd as my face was carefully lathered. As I sat with a beard of foam, the boy watched intently, gave me a reassuring massage on my shoulder and responded to instructions from the patron. I was shaved once, twice without the slightest nick. Hair was washed and expertly cut. I was relaxed.
Then came the pitch. A facepack, only ten lire. Seemed ok. Then green goo that I thought was hair conditioner was produced for my 'broken' hair. Now my guard was down and I acceded without checking the price. The goo was applied. While my ears were singed with flaming cotton buds, a call from the street distracted the barber and he lingered a split second too long on my left lobe. I recoiled from the pain. Then hot wax was applied, ripped off and I realised that this attention was not going to come cheap. Twenty minutes and a massage later I was a new man. I was shocked to see in the mirror that the conditioner, in reality, had been dye.
I stood up. "That's a hundred" the barber smiled.
I left the shop, hair darker, pockets lighter.
I thought wistfully of Jean Rochefort as Antione, in Patrice Leconte's La mari de la coiffeuse watching Anna Galiena as Mathilde, sitting in the barber's shop window. I yearned for those moments of intense fulfilment - to be a hairdresser's husband, to be at one in the now and beyond life itself.
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