In preparation for my Zabul trip, I decided it was time to not be quite so shaggy. I went to the barber and asked him to shorten it. Luckily, he spoke English quite well, so I was pretty sure it wouldn’t be a repeat of the Tbilisi fiasco. He went to town-chopping all over and we had some nice chats about life in Afghanistan-with an actual Afghan nonetheless-quite a novelty for me! He finished up and I was more or less pleased, still not quite up to snuff with the wizard who often still cuts my hair back home. Next, out came a straight-edged razor. I’m the trusting sort usually, but the combination of this brutal looking razor, a small man behind me, holding it to my neck, and the collection of hundreds of articles and the occasional intelligence report I’ve been reading didn’t sit well with me. Nevertheless, I sat still and held my breath, and he cleaned up around my hairline. It was great. First time I’ve had that happen. On top of some shorter neck-hairs, I left his shop smelling like the cheaper after-shaves we used to buy my dad for presents when we were growing up.
Peace...
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