My Barber, My Chiropractor

The barber shop can be a dangerous place, even if my haircuts end with a few nice flourishes.

First comes the warm foam and straight razor against my neck and cheek. Next comes the hot, scented towel wiping away the excess froth. Finally, my Vietnamese barber thwaps my head with his loosened fingers and runs the operation along my neck and shoulders, then digs his fingertips into my fresh-cropped head.

Normally this is very soothing.

Today’s flourishes, however, had me in a panic. My barber pulled my head in one direction, pushed it in another, and began swiveling my neck against its natural tendency. While none of it hurt, the movements revealed a tightness along the very space where blood flows from my heart to my brain.

Perhaps this—restricted oxygen flow—caused my concern. My diminished capacity to process had me fixated on the unlicensed nature of this quasi-medical corporal intervention.

Son is a master with the clippers, an artist with blades and attachments that buzz exquisitely around my head. He uses at least three different scissors snipping with casual abandon to create a snowstorm of clippings before clearing my face in a single stroke. He runs his blades across my eyebrows and whistles out my nose—only the Turkish barber in Saudi Arabia made more magic with his flaming Q-tip popped inside my ear.

Son, I trust with a straight razor against my neck.

But twisting it? Can’t this cause permanent damage? How much do I resist, how much do I acquiesce? Am I over-thinking it?

While this was going on, the customer beside me asked his barber about his swollen face. Apparently a clipping from the previous customer had got in the barber’s eye. “Like a dagger,” the barber said. “He have very strong hair.”

Very strong hair. Now there’s an occupational hazard you don’t hear about every day. I relaxed my neck and let the unlicensed chiropractor do his thing.

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