I had to do a little hunting before I found the right place. The man at my hotel recommended the guy around the corner, but when I walked by the place it looked more like a salon than a time weathered barbershop. I was looking for a traditional Turkish shave, which to me, meant the person cutting my hair had to be at least a third generation barber.

I learned to identify barbershops in Turkey by the drying racks outside the front door, weighed down with orange and yellow hand towels blowing in the breeze. I went inside a place I had seen crowded with locals the day before and sat down on a wooden bench facing two red leather barber chairs. Above the wall length mirror was a 12 inch black and white TV intermittently broadcasting news through spasms of static. I was getting a good feeling about this place.

Another customer came in after me and poured tea for both me and himself. I love that Turks begin most conversations with the question, “Would you like a some tea or coffee?” We sat drinking tea and chatting in broken English while the barber stood in the door smoking a cigarette. Once the barber learned enough about me to decide he would cut my hair, he gestured for me to move to the chair. I felt like I had just been admitted past the red rope at a popular nightclub.

The shaving of my head was nothing eventful, just electric shears with no attachment, but the shave to my face was a special production. He began by getting some hot water from the same pot he’d used to heat the tea water. He poured it into a cup with some shaving soap and swirled a giant horse hair brush round and round until the soap became a creamy lather he thoroughly worked onto my face. It was so thick I was wondering if I was going to be able to breathe through my nostrils without suffocating on shaving cream.

Next came the straight razor. I’d been shaven with one before so I wasn’t filled with the fear that one might have if it was the first time you’d experienced a 3 inch long blade pulled against your neck by a man you’d just met. He was clearly a professional and had no hesitation pinching my cheeks with his fingers so that he could pull the blade along the best angle for a clean shave. He even lifted my nose so that he could bring the blade just inside each of my nostrils.

Once he’d finished manhandling my face, he stepped over to what appeared to be a crock pot and pulled out a pasty orange substance on a popsicle stick. I had no idea how this was to work into my Turkish shave until he began to baste my ears with what I finally realized was hot wax. He offered me some more tea and went outside to smoke another cigarette.

I’d never had anything waxed before so I didn’t know what was yet to come. After all, it had felt kind of nice to have that smooth wax basted on my ears. I wanted to scream at the first pull, but I realized this shop was filled with men, and crying out was probably not acceptable. Besides, I suspected that’s what they were expecting me to do. So, I suppressed my cries of pain at each tug, especially when he pulled the wax near my inner ear!

As if this wasn’t enough, he then dipped a tightly rolled wad of paper into alcohol and lit it on fire. He proceeded to tap the burning wad of paper against my ear to singe away any remaining hair. The smell of burning hair confirmed the effectiveness of this technique, and I wondered if this was the catalyst to what was to be written in some tabloid on one of those rare cases of spontaneous human combustion.

After the pain of being waxed and burned, I was comforted to once again see the straight razor, something I was at least familiar with. He gave me a second facial shave before telling me to lean forward into the wash basin. My face was splashed and rinsed with water, after which I received a head shampoo and massage.

He sat me back up in the chair and applied first some aftershave followed by cologne. I would like to note, at this point, that while I was getting my haircut, a man had just walked into the shop, sprayed himself with this cologne, and then walked out again. I guess it’s like getting free top offs after you’ve had your oil changed.

There was no need to dry my hair of course, but he did pat on some talc with his fingers and finished by cleaning out my ears with soft cotton balls. As it turned out, he had come to Istanbul 20 years earlier to cut hair, but he wasn’t a third generation barber. Still, I am confident in saying I have received a traditional Turkish shave.