“Where Are You From Behind?”
Getting a Haircut in Gothenburg
It had only been a couple of weeks since I had flown in from New York, and I was still finding my way around Gothenburg, a much smaller and quieter city than New York. This was my first time here—or in Sweden.
I realized I needed a haircut—a slight trimming since I don’t have much hair left on my head. It took some walking about town before I spotted a barbershop, or a Frisör, as it is called in Swedish (pronounced Freezer or Freeser).
I noticed Frisör written in bold on a red flag hanging outside a shop window. The flag had a pair of scissors and a comb printed on it, and the price of a haircut was also displayed—180 Kroner or US$22.
I walked in.
It was still early in the day, and there were no other customers. The barber, a thickset man with a Middle Eastern appearance, was dusting the chairs. He greeted me unsmilingly and pointed to one of the three empty chairs. After putting the barber cape around me, he asked the standard question barbers ask their customers: “How do you want your hair cut?”
“Just a bit of trimming from the sides and the back,” I told him.
He nodded and proceeded to look for the necessary tools in a drawer. He took out only a hair clipper, or the machine, as we call it, no comb or scissors.
While he proceeded with the job, he started talking to me, as barbers usually do with their customers. His knowledge of English was minimal.
“Where you come from?” He delivered his first question.
“New York”, I said.
He didn’t seem to be satisfied with my answer and elaborated his question:
“Where do you come from behind?”
“Pakistan”, I told him.
“Hmmm,” was his reaction. I couldn’t tell if it meant he was happy, indifferent, or uneasy.
Then came his second question:
“How old are you?”
I dodged that question and asked him, “Where do you come from behind?”
“I’m an Iraqi Kurd, nine years in Sweden,” he answered.
While we continued chitchat, he mowed my hair with the machine. I say ‘mow’ because that’s what he did. He mowed my hair, starting from one ear and going around the back of my head to the other ear. He did not use scissors or a comb, as promised on the red flag on his shop window.
When he was done with the job, I looked into the mirror and saw a reflection of a freshly interned prisoner staring back at me. All I needed was a pair of striped pajamas to complete the picture.
When I returned home, I was greeted with bemused looks and a question: Did you visit a barber?
“Yes, why?”
“Because your ears look a lot lower!”
I don’t think I’ll need a haircut for another few months.
The moral of the story is: Get a haircut from your favorite barber in the country of your residence before you embark on a journey to a foreign land — especially to Sweden.
