The artistry of a good haircut, and the misery of a bad one.
Up until the age of 21, no one ever cut my hair apart from my father. I was reminded of the fact yesterday when one of my daughters posted a photograph of a horse, whose mane had been clipped in a very straight line. This was a comment on my hairdressing skills, not my dad's. When the girls were little, I used to cut their fringes, and the horse picture was a reminder of my one and only style, the geometric hairdo. My father, on the other hand, was a skilled barber and hairdresser. A ten-year-old orphaned Christian boy, he was taken in as a shop helper by a Muslim barber in 1920s Istanbul and learned a trade that he knew would give him an income to support himself and his baby brother. He graduated to having his own salons and teaching at the Kamer Institute in Athens. So, he could cut hair. I was always guaranteed a great haircut, always effortless and he really understood my coarse and unruly mop. His passing was far sadder than anything else I had experie...