Yesterday, during the hours that I was supposed to convince some lazy napping kids to go to prayer, I stopped in at the barracks barber shop. All students at my school are required to have hair no longer than the first knuckle. To ensure that sort of consistency, the school employs two barbers who sit in their front room for a few hours each day waiting to take a razor to some kids head.
My cadets told me that I should not trust these men, as the men tell the students they are not allowed to use scissors, only the electric buzzers. I doubted this to be true, but had put off getting a hair cut from them, just in case. I’d scouted a few hair cut places in Doha, but nothing jumped out at me. I had a great barber back in the Twin Cities. His name is Mike and he likes photography, jazz music, bicycles, and cooking fish. Hair cuts with Mike generally take an hour, because he’s so chatty. And he uses his hands to talk, which makes cutting hair difficult.
This hair cut was not a lot like that at all. As I was walking past the shop, I saw the campus doctor getting a trim, so I figured if it was good enough for him, it was good for me too. I sat on the couch and waited for him to finish. When I sat down, the man said, “You are American?” Answering in the affirmative, the man just wrapped a white tissue paper around my neck and set about cutting off my hair.
Every two minutes or so, I’d notice how tense I was. My jaw clenched and legs tightened ready to leap out of the chair at any sign of blood. The Nepalese man wielded the scissors as fast as I’ve ever seen. He clipped so fast and ferociously it sounded like he was typing on a keyboard more than it sounded like he was giving a hair cut. He trimmed the sides up nice and tight, the way I like it (though he did something weird with the hair over my ears) and then set about finishing off the top. He went a little too close to my crown and didn’t account for my swirl, which means that I’ve got a few permanent chicken hairs, but soon everything will grow out and I’ll look awesome.
The best part of the cut was when he gave me a head massage complete with some upper shoulder action. Maybe he sensed how tense I was, maybe it was part of the cost (free) but either way, it was awesome. I thanked him, and went back to my office. The guy I work with thought I’d died, as I’d been gone for a good hour. I apologized, showered and continued with my day.
Free hair cuts are the best.
In addition to the hair cut, yesterday the school presented us with out Qatar IDs and visas, which means that we can begin the process of getting a car, obtaining a liquor permit, and leave the country on vacations. All things considered, I’d call it a very successful Wednesday.
The hardest part of my day came when one of my students asked me to help him define the word “pun.” I’ll leave you with that. 
Going Missing for Awhile 