Between meetings in Dubai there was an hour going free and Tyler encouraged me, along with my colleague Luke, to ditch him and make an appointment at 1847, a chain of men’s grooming parlours found all over the UAE. After a week of admiring the precision-cut beards and generally immaculate personal presentation of every Emirati gent who we had met, we signed up on the spot for a full makeover – the Presidential Treatment.
If you’re up for a good life story, this is a country where it’s always smart to start with a “where are you originally from?” My young barber told me that he was from Damascus, five years in Dubai and, while now hopeful about his homeland, was not planning on leaving Dubai any time soon, thank you. As we chatted, he cut my hair and then administered a relaxing facial (even the bit where he ran a sort of miniature vacuum cleaner over my visage to extract grime and some other hideous hideouts sheltering in my pores). Then came the task of depilating my ears and nostrils with molten wax.
Look, my bathroom routine includes regular rounds of gadget-controlled strimming but I soon became aware from my new friend’s startled expression that my bodily gardening efforts had left me not with a tidy lawn but rather a backyard strewn with unruly nasal and lughole weeds. He set to work. I watched as he spun the hot wax around the end of a short stick and again as he inserted this lollipop-like construction deep into the requisite orifice. You know when you see a National Geographic-style picture of some weird critter that lives in the darkness of the ocean floor, fumbling around down there with the aid of gruesome antennae? Well, that’s how I looked when I caught sight of myself in the mirror.
After waiting a minute while the wax cooled and set, my barber then tugged out each lollipop. I could sense that he was concerned. “There’s a lot,” he said as he waved the waxy end in front of my eyes – each one now like a miniature model hedgehog. The procedure, it was made clear, needed to be repeated (at this stage I almost expected to see him don a caver’s helmet with torch attached and clamber down a tiny rope into the abyss to hack through the follicle foliage).
So here came the wax again, fixing into position. Then that culling tug. He was probably thinking that a return to Damascus might offer a simpler existence after all. By now, Luke was primped and elegant (never travel with younger colleagues) and was keen to leave but no, apparently I would have to face round three. This time the extracted wax sticks were, thankfully, less hirsute – the last defenders of Fortress Nostril had admitted defeat. There was relief all round (even if the salon was now running short on wax). A job well done.
A day has passed since my trim-fest and, really, I am a changed person. I find myself constantly stroking my ears, now as soft and hairless as new-born puppies. I feel more aerodynamic. I am a man reborn. But how to keep the undergrowth at bay? I can only hope that I’ll be back in Dubai soon.