I got my hair cut at the same barbershop for 10 years - right up until I left the country. When you went in there, they placed your head on a guillotine and shampooed you so vigorously that it unblocked previously forgotten memories. The shampooing was done by the callous, big hands of a man who likely worked a construction job before deciding that his true calling lay in giving haircuts to middle-class youth. For a significant part of my childhood, I was terrified of someone pouring water on my head. In 5th grade, my father took me to the fancy new salon that had opened uptown. They placed my head face down on the guillotine. Next, I remember the fight-or-flight instinct kicking in as the first drops of water fell on the back of my head. For the next several minutes, the hair washer - that was their lone job at the salon, held my head down as I grunted and panted - this, I imagine, resembled what waterboarding sounds like in an American torture camp. My father stood there ashamed of his only son, who was too weak to get his hair wet. When I lifted my head, relieved that the torture was over, I caught sight of a girl who went to my school. I mentally prepared for the embarrassment that awaited me when I went to class but soon realized that the expression on her face was not one of amusement - It was one of pure fear. She never mentioned this incident.
"Since this involved not doing things, it was easy to practice. I wish more life improvements were of a similar nature." ❤️