Something that may not be evident via our posts about delicious sausages, treasure-filled markets and über gigs, is that life in the bike lane of Berlin sometimes calls for a break. There are only so many parties and social engagements one can engineer an outfit for before one feels the need to wear exactly what they woke up in – for the whole day. So it was with this itchiness of feet that I farewelled my Easy partner in crime, threw my caftan in my bag, and set off for Turkey.
Now, a definite hot tip for travelers bound for Istanbul, is to check out the touristy bits in Sultanahmet, and then high-tail it outta there to Taksim, just across the Golden Horn. Get yourself to Taksim Square (god knows how to use the public transport there, P.S. I cheated and caught cabs. Not too pricey, but don’t go in peak hour) and head down Istiklal Caddesi – you will know it by the sheer number of people doing the same thing. At the bottom of the Caddesi (downhill, in a South-Westerly direction), turn right for a bunch of spidery lanes, populated with the trendy, arty Istanbul set, hanging out and drinking at tiny, tiny tables and chairs. Oh, and cats. There are lots and lots of cats, too.
Once you are done with your Efes or Cay tea or whatever you have to drink, head back up the Caddesi for about ten minutes, keeping your left eye peeled for a man dressed as a Sultan, holding a stick. This is Mehmet, and he is pimping “By Retro,” the most intense vintage shopping experience I have ever… experienced.
By Retro is a cavernous, 100% Polyester lair of clothes, shoes, old bits, trendy bobs and cute thing-ys. You need at least an hour, and there are plenty of “Bored Boyfriend” chairs if your company is a) not interested or b) was interested, but not that interested. My experience with By Retro also includes being at the receiving end of a rogue nail scissor-wielding hairdresser’s flight of fancy. This is exactly how this situation – for which I have a witness – played out.
Guerrilla Hairdresser: Hello.
Me: Hallo! …All is very nice – this shop. Many nice things! (I am frequently compelled to speak broken English to people who have English as a second language. Very embarrassing.)
Guerrilla Hairdresser: (Touching my hair) Me – ahh, hairdresser. Me – hairdresser.
Me: Oh! Wow! That’s great. I, my hair, is very bad now. I grow my hair, but now is bad.
Guerrilla Hairdresser: (Removing clips from my hair, he notices that my shoulders are up around my ears and my nostrils had flared to twice their usual size) You O.K?
Me: Oh yes, yes! I am O.K. I am sorry, I just didn’t understand what you were doing (…and still don’t, weirdo…)
Guerrilla Hairdresser: Come, come.
Grabbing me by the hand, he whisked me to the back of the shop and threw a shawl over my shoulders. He disappeared out the back and I stood there a little confused, mouthing “WTF?’s” to my friend. Four seconds later, he was back. Armed with a broken comb and some nail scissors he had found somewhere, probably the bin, he positioned himself in front of my face. It was then and only then, did my friend and I finally realise just what it was that I had signed up for. Opening my mouth to try and stop him, he raised his hand and - Snip.
Insecure with my back to the mirror and my now bored friend off for a wander, I desperately tried to communicate to him that I was “Grow-wing my haaa-errr,” through a series of long, slow gestures, indicating the length that I should like my hair to remain. Obviously not understanding this, Edward Nailscissorfinger would pause, lean in and whisper in an almost seductive fashion, “Trust. Trust.” O.K, I thought, wearily. This is going to be a good story, at least.
Two hours, yes, two hours later, I was dizzy, anxious and confused (and so, so goddamn hungry), the Turkish Dr Frankenstein dramatically spun me around to admire his master creation. Oh. Dear. God. With one side a good two inches longer than the other, my heart sank as I turned and tilted my head, taking in the many angles of the unique (read- “ridiculous”) asymmetrical creation he had bestowed upon me. A cut that would challenge even the boldest of hair fashionistas. I looked like an extra from Lost in Space. No, no, no. I apologetically (though rather firmly) insisted that he remove the ridiculous long bit, that my times with interesting hair cuts were over, and I just wanted it all to be the one length. “Saaaaame. Same – all same – length.”
After a further twenty dread-filled minutes, I, along with my returned friend and brand new flipping bob, paid the dude and hot-stepped it out of there. We had just reached the entrance and were about to make haste for the nearest bar when I felt a familiar tap at my shoulder. I froze, turned slowly around, and stared at Dr Frankenstein, who was now cutting an eerie silhouette as he stood in the doorway, back lit by the treasure chest of plumage delights below.
“Yes? Is everything ok? I’m sorry, I always tuck my hair behind my ears, my hairdresser at home gets really annoy-” I was cut off by the motion of a shadowy, dark object he raised triumphantly in the air. It was a bag. “Oh… Oh… No, I don’t think that is mine.”
“Is for you! Is hair! Is you hair.”
“Wah?”
“You burn – you hair – you burn hair. So, so no person make into voodoo,” and with that, Dr Frankenstein thrust the bag into my hands. Gingerly, I peeked inside. Nope, he was not kidding. It was a bag full of my freshly amputated hair, along with some odd bits of floor crud that became mixed up in the whole business. Forcing a smile and ribbing my bewildered and wildly entertained friend, I thanked him once more, ducking and bowing my way backwards out of the alley and deep into the safety of the bustling Istiklal Caddesi, hair in hand.
The End.
P.S. I hope this doesn’t put you off visiting By Retro. It is really ace. Just wear a hat.
PPS. I ended up just throwing the hair out. I couldn’t work out a discreet way of creating a burning ritual for my hair without weirding out (or pissing off) the guy we were staying with. I’m only a wee bit concerned about someone finding the bag and making a Voodoo… Can people really do that?
