Mustafa who knew me well was a refugee too: he from Syria, me from the realm of common sense.
How would you like it cut? he asked.
Like yours, I said.
He didn’t chuckle. He didn’t comment on the outrageousness of my request.
Apart from the difference in hair color, there was also the disparity in volume though he admitted, even at 27, he was losing his hair.
He cut, he swooped, he shaved, he teased and cajoled but when finished he wrought a little miracle.
How did it look? Shaved at the sides , but on top what hair I had was swept to the other side of my head and held down by gel. It looked amazing.
Askew, I said, It looks amazingly askew.
Like your writing, he said.
Yes, like my writing.