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I'm not sure what an Edinburgh kiss is, but I'd like to think I've just had one. Unlike the Liverpolitan or Glaswegian variety, which basically involves a smart smack of the forehead onto the nose of an adversary, or maybe just a bloke who looks at you the wrong way in the chip shop at 11.30, this one is a bit more intricate.
I'd wandered out into Morningside after work to get a couple of things. I'd noticed a plethora of barbers in the area during our morning and evening trundles through on the way to and from the school. As my hair was getting in my eyes a bit, and at 5.45 "The Brothers" was still open, I decided to take advantage. I requested my usual "one and half". In Sheffield this indicates the clipper number to be used: in Edinburgh it seems to refer to the remaining length of hair in picometres. But that's bye the bye, or possibly by the by. The "brother" in question, a short, well-muscled and dark-haired Italian guy with a classic Roman nose, quickly clippered my head, tidied up the odds and ends, sprayed me with cologne, offered to cut my eyebrows (no thanks, its the start of the road to hell), and then (as I thought) went off to fetch me a towel. Instead of this however, he grabbed a 6 inch long taper with a cotton wad on the end, sprinkled it with lighter fuel, and lit it. At this point, being the last customer in the shop, I began to feel slightly worried as I could see him approaching me from behind in the mirror, the flame flickering wildly. My life flashed in front of my eyes. It consisted mainly of blank crosswords, real ale and waiting for Niku* to start up, I'm sad to report. He cupped my left ear, then wafted the burning taper into it three times. Before I could say "dermatological pro-vitamin" he'd repeated this in my right ear. It was kind of warm (yes, I know what you're thinking, it's a flame) and soft, like someone sticking their tongue in your ear, but before they realise how horrible it tastes. He smiled at me. I slowly de-braced myself. The ordeal seemed to be over. Clearly this was not some bizarre sacrificial ritual, but an Edinburgh, or possibly Italian, barbershop tradition. Quite what it achieved that a Hopi ear candle couldn't, I don't know, but it was a damned sight cheaper. I look forward to my first visit to the chiropractor, when The Wicker Man is re-enacted on the treatment table.
I'd wandered out into Morningside after work to get a couple of things. I'd noticed a plethora of barbers in the area during our morning and evening trundles through on the way to and from the school. As my hair was getting in my eyes a bit, and at 5.45 "The Brothers" was still open, I decided to take advantage. I requested my usual "one and half". In Sheffield this indicates the clipper number to be used: in Edinburgh it seems to refer to the remaining length of hair in picometres. But that's bye the bye, or possibly by the by. The "brother" in question, a short, well-muscled and dark-haired Italian guy with a classic Roman nose, quickly clippered my head, tidied up the odds and ends, sprayed me with cologne, offered to cut my eyebrows (no thanks, its the start of the road to hell), and then (as I thought) went off to fetch me a towel. Instead of this however, he grabbed a 6 inch long taper with a cotton wad on the end, sprinkled it with lighter fuel, and lit it. At this point, being the last customer in the shop, I began to feel slightly worried as I could see him approaching me from behind in the mirror, the flame flickering wildly. My life flashed in front of my eyes. It consisted mainly of blank crosswords, real ale and waiting for Niku* to start up, I'm sad to report. He cupped my left ear, then wafted the burning taper into it three times. Before I could say "dermatological pro-vitamin" he'd repeated this in my right ear. It was kind of warm (yes, I know what you're thinking, it's a flame) and soft, like someone sticking their tongue in your ear, but before they realise how horrible it tastes. He smiled at me. I slowly de-braced myself. The ordeal seemed to be over. Clearly this was not some bizarre sacrificial ritual, but an Edinburgh, or possibly Italian, barbershop tradition. Quite what it achieved that a Hopi ear candle couldn't, I don't know, but it was a damned sight cheaper. I look forward to my first visit to the chiropractor, when The Wicker Man is re-enacted on the treatment table.
* a particularly irritating piece of software we used at HSBC
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