I’ve had the same barber for more than a year now. The less hair I command, the more lovingly I care for it. Central to that care is discovering the right barber.

Ilyas has a gentle way, and Turkish rituals. He shoves wax up my nose, and sweeps my neck with a dry blade. He throws flames at my ears to singe those feathery hairs. Every now and then, the air is spritzed with a peppermint haze.

As he contours my miserable little beard, he lingers under my neck. With the brisk, considered movement of a master chef working tarragon, he achieves the desired line. Each hair either has a role, or it does not.

Eyes closed, I imagine the damage he can do with that blade, and meditate on the trust we place in our fellow man.

The alternative, which also springs to mind, is a Sweeney Todd universe of blood, shit and corpses. In Sweeney’s world, I am consigned by lever from my chair, to a hidden pit below. It is a horror show, to be sure, made glorious by Sondheim’s hellish music, and heavenly wit.

“They all deserve to die.
Even you, Mrs. Lovett; Even I.”

***

Ilyas is getting married.

She’s a girl from the village, and they went to school together. He announced this to me with a sparkle in his eye.

I was delighted, of course. His news also goes to explain his frequent visits back to Turkey. He hadn’t mentioned the fiancée before, but we had talked about his trip for a hair transplant.

The barber’s chair facilitates all kinds of follicular exchange. Some men, who rarely talk beyond football, speak of themselves through their hair.

Ilyas had been pointing to his receding temples through the mirror for some time, with a tone of disappointment, mixed with shame.

I didn’t see the fuss, and assured him that he looked grand. But when you’re thirty, a loss of hair is evidence of an invading force. It has the power to pull a man down.

Years ago, a friend worked on a men’s shampoo brand which wanted to celebrate the feeling of having thick, healthy hair. The proposed advertising line, she told me,  seemed both wise and simple: “Love your hair, before it leaves”.

But young male consumers hated that end-line, and its premise. The abyss of hair loss was too upsetting; like contemplating death, to appreciate life.

The idea went nowhere.

Six months ago, having returned from Turkey, Ilyas proudly announced that he had done the deed. 2000 hairs had been relocated. Yes. That sparkle, once again.

He was a happy man, recounting the detail of when the transferred follicles would fall out, and regrow, and how professional his hair consultant was. Being Turkish, he knew where to find one.

There be charlatans in the hair-plugging game.

***

Just yesterday, we talked about his wedding plans for this summer. He mumbled that all was fine. I wanted to know more. Like, how many guests there will be.

He had me guess. I low-balled 200, though I knew that the further east you travel, the bigger the celebrations. My guess anticipated my own surprise.

Sometimes I wonder why I do that – feign a level of cluelessness that is not true. Perhaps it is a desire to give the pleasure of revelation to another. Who am I to steal their thunder? Yet, who am I to patronise them with my pretend witlessness?

In the event, I really was taken aback.

One thousand.

He and his beloved will have one thousand guests at their wedding! At least, that’s what his Mum told him, when she phoned this week. Mum is on the case.

‘If you’re free this summer, come along’, he said, smiling into the mirror, while buzzing my sides.

It will be a halal wedding. They provide the meat, and the caterers do the rest. Of course, there’s no alcohol.

‘In Turkey, we don’t need the alcohol to go mad’, joked his colleague, trimming next to us. He had been listening into our conversation as he cut a boy’s hair. His young client had been promised a lollipop when the job was done. Dad was waiting across the way.

The scenario reminded me of the new frontage on The Grafton Barber I had noticed some days back. The description of  their service really worked for me.

“Barbers to gentlemen and their sons”, is written below the logo. Few gendered, inter-generational experiences are celebrated in our culture, it seems. More’s the pity.  Spaces where men strengthen men serve all of society.

***

Ilyas is a quiet kind of guy. The idea of him at the middle of a celebration with one thousand people made me wide-eyed, and somewhat amused.

That’s everyone in the village, and some in from the cities, he explained.

No one from Ireland is coming. At least, not for the moment.

‘You should come’, he murmured, under his breath.

Maybe I will, I thought. And make it one thousand and one.