"Hey! That's my antenna!" It was a simple statement. The results: Shots fired. Two badly beaten. Fifty more in a huff. I just wanted to get a hair cut. I told a friend about the guy who cut my hair last year [related story], and he said he knew who I was talking about. My friend drove me to his place, but we found it closed, and so he dropped me off at another barber shop that came highly recommended. On my way in, I walked by two guys, who greeted each other like old friends. When I was almost out of earshot, I heard one say "Hey! That's my antenna!"
The barber tried to put his hands through my hair. In the best of times, it's a chore. With only goat-milk soap as shampoo and Jenin's fine dust caking through it, he was doomed to failure before he started. He told me that my hair was the thickest he had ever seen. I pretended like he was making a novel observation.
I heard a few loud shouts, but it was not at all outside the norm. I laid back into the sink, and the barber washed my hair. What hands.
"Come look!" Two guys at the window waved us over. My hair was dripping wet, and while we stood looking out the window, the barber started drying my hair. The two men who had started out with greetings were in each other's faces, with a few people around them. One grabbed a chair and ran after the other. People on the street intervened. The father of one of the men - a man easily in his fifties - pleaded for calm. More screaming.
The car's tires squealed. He was showing us that he was a man. The car did two donuts and then took off, still burning rubber. One of the men ran into it and drove away.
The barber cleaned his tools as I sat on his chair. He shrugged off the madness and got to work. I could see a shaheed (martyr) poster reflected in the mirror. He must have been a friend. He was carrying a gun in the picture, so he probably died fighting. The athaan (call to prayer) sounded. If I was fighting, I would stop long enough to pray.
"He's got a knife!" The same two guys at the window were giving us a play-by-play. I sat on the chair for a few minutes hoping the barber would come back to my hair. He didn't, so I walked over to the window. The donut-driver was back, and he had a knife the size of my arm. I watched intently trying to figure out what was happening. Hordes of people had surrounded the scene, and many had taken sides. Small side-fights sprung up, but were quickly dissolved for the main event.
I sat down and the barber resumed my haircut. I think he was hoping the problem would go away if he ignored it.
The two guys ran away from the window. One of them grabbed the barber, whose scissors were in mid-slice in my hair. They hid behind the corridor. Out of habit, I walked toward the window. The knife-wielding donut-driver's enemy's brother was walking around firing an M-16 into the air. Somebody grabbed his gun. Shots were fired in all directions while they battled for control of it. Off to the side, the father of one of the men was being beaten savagely. His son was by his side, and was being beaten with him.
The barber didn't cut my hair enough, so when he asked if it was short enough, I said no. A couple of attempts later, I was happy. I paid 15 NIS ($4 USD; $6 CAD) and walked home.
tarek
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