Paris, FRANCE. August, 1998. I needed a haircut, so I headed for Paris's Arab quarter. I figured Arabs would be cheaper than French barbers. Sure enough, I found a place that cuts hair for 40 francs, or about US$6.50. My man asked how I wanted it cut and I gave my standard reply: "Fast."
Delighted, my man went to work with speed and gusto. He turned out to be Algerian, tall and slender with a white shirt, narrow black tie, and a black suit. A barber in a black suit! The radio blared out the hideous chanting I've come to associate with prayers in mosques. My man told me it was some Egyptian chanting the Koran; did it bother me? "No," I assured him, not wanting to ruin his pleasure. I said, "Do you understand everything he's chanting?" "No," my barber answered happily. He was a bit too nervous and animated for my taste, especially since he was weilding a straight razor. But he was such an upbeat, friendly chap I soon got used to it.
When I told him I was American, he asked me how many Arabs lived in the U.S. By this time other Algerians in the shop had joined the talk, and one of them interrupted. "They don't say Arabs there. They say Moslems." I assured my audience that there were indeed many Moslems in the U.S., and not only in New York. I think New York and the U.S. meant the same thing to this group.
They asked where my ancestors came from, and when I answered "Holland" everyone in my audience broke into an animated discussion about the Holland/ Brazil game in the World Cup. Even though Brazil won, these guys didn't like the way Brazil played. "They're too showy, too fancy. They play soccer the way that basketball team, you know, the Harlem, plays basketball. Dribbling all around, very fancy, but no hard soccer."
They spent the rest of the time trying to persuade me to visit an Arab country.