Never barter with a Balkan barber

7 hours ago , by Richard Lutz

RICHARD LUTZ voyages to where West meets East

SOFIA

If you disagree with a Bulgarian barber, think twice.

Especially contemplate this if he’s handling a cut-throat razor ready to eliminate an unshaven ratty two week old goatee.

These concerns do cross your mind as you prepare to sit in his reclining chair under a cloud of shaving cream and expose your vulnerable windpipe to an edge of steel. Just after haggling over the price.

I’m in Sofia. And to clean up my act, I ask for a hot shave. Yesterday it was €10. Today, it’s gone to €12.

‘C’mon, how can that be?’

The barber shrugs, eyes my throat, caresses his razor: ‘Inflation.’ He glides a small blowtorch flame across the blade.Behind him a customer has a pair of cotton buds sticking from his nostrils. A blast of hot air melts the wax on the tips so the nose can be cleaned.

‘Twenty percent in one day….?’ I ask. The clean nosed customer winces as the second cotton bud proves difficult. I wince too.

Another Balkan shrug: ‘Inflation.’ The barber gives the razor another blowtorch blast.

I clock the sharpened steel in his hand and think of it across my throat and him a bit annoyed about me questioning the price. I don’t like the odds. The goatee stays. As the grubby tabloid reporters used to write: ‘I made my excuses and left….’

Goatee intact, I’m off to see this:

It’s the musical, Mamma Mia, all done with Balkan aplomb by the Sofia Opera Company …in Bulgarian of course.

The troupe gives it the full ABBA treatment. The full house is standing and jumping in this plush concert hall and belting out 1970’s classics like this one:

Можеш да танцуваш, да се развихриш!
Наслаждавай се на живота!
Виж това момиче, гледай дансинга!
Възхити се на танцуващата кралица!

A bit of Cyrillic mystery there but it’s actually Dancing Queen in Bulgarian for those not in lockstep with the Balkan lingo. Abba anthems cut through the hot Sofia night, drift up past the nearby onion dome cathedral, bypass the packed pavement bars and cafes shrouded in cigarette and vape smoke, overcome the clanging of the trolleys and trams and the nighttime noise of this capital city. The fans really let rip.

The woman next to us, not less than 85 and leaning heavily on a cane, is giving it 100 percent as Waterloo fills the packed hall. Down in the stalls, the orchestra pit keeps things alive until the last stragglers finally bop to the exit.

We walk out of the opera house. Next week, it will heat up again, this time with Carmen. We go for a post ABBA drink and witness the cathedral swimming in lights. The bar bill balloons with mystery expressos added to our totals. ’Mistake, a mistake..’ the Sofia waiter admits as he quickly retreats and reduces the figures. Of course, we agree. An unfortunate error. It’s a busy night and so any things are unfolding. It can happen to anyone, anywhere. Funny how mistakes are never made in the customer’s favour. Funny that. Our tip goes back into our pocket. Ahh, the delights of being a stranger in a new city. The allure of travel.