Every now and then Mr. Abbasi would be coming down hard on us due to the length of our hair. At times he would even go to extremes by showing up at our morning announcements with a pair of scissors in his hands, ready to cut off a sizable chunk of the hair of anyone that had already received a few warnings. As a result our local barber shop would always be populated with kids from our school. The barber shop was family owned by an older father and his two younger sons. Many times a grandson, not older than ten, would also be present and help around in the shop.
During one of Mr. Abbasi’s raids, I headed for the barber shop in the early afternoon, hoping to beat the expected line. The shop was closed for lunch and afternoon napping but there were already a few people waiting outside. As we made small talk in anticipation of the shop’s opening, the grandson also appeared and went inside to prepare the shop for opening. A few minutes later he came back out with an innovation that very effectively handled the order of the ever-growing crowd. He handed us each a slip of paper with a number on it which indicated our position in line. When not sure, we helped him out by telling him who was present when we had arrived and thus indicating those who were before us. He finally had a number for everyone and after letting us in said that his father would soon be there.
As we continued waiting inside, a younger kid picked up a sports magazine from one of the tables. On the cover was a picture from Iran’s 2-2 tie with Japan. He showed it to his friends and inadvertently revealed that they had a black and white TV at home by saying, “So the dark jerseys we see on television are actually green.”
"My parents, brother, and I left Iran in 1980, shortly after the revolution. After a brief stay in Italy, we packed all our belongings once again and headed west to the exotic and the unknown: Vancouver. We had recently been accepted as landed immigrants, meaning Canada graciously opened its doors and we gratefully accepted; we arrived at Vancouver International Airport on my 10th birthday, three suitcases and one sewing machine in tow. After respectful but intense questioning at immigration, we were dropped off at a hotel on Robson Street, which was then still a couple years shy of becoming the fashionable tourist hub it is today. We were jetlagged, culture shocked, and hungry, so that first night, my father and brother courageously ventured out into the wild in search of provisions. I fell asleep before they returned. The next morning, I woke up at 5 a.m. and ravenously feasted on a cold Quarter Pounder with cheese and limp French fries that had been left by my beds...
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