Ko Myint Lwin in his barbershop, Yangon, January 2019

I don’t have much hair.This doesn’t stop me from regularly visiting my local Turkish barber, to stay presentable, enjoy the old style service and gossip. I try to maintain this habit while traveling and this has led to some unusual experiences. In Nadi, Fiji I had my hair cut in a shop that doubled as a dry cleaners. The barber had to keep stopping to deal with customers who were dropping off or collecting their garments. In Lucknow a group of elderly customers insisted I go to the front of the queue and then quizzed me about how I knew a little Hindi. I explained that I’d picked up some words from vintage Bollywood songs. They persuaded me to sing for them. I am no singer, but I managed the chorus of Sar Jo Tera Chakraye from the 1957 film Pyaasa and they seemed satisfied - if a little surprised.

Ko Myint Lwin made no such demands of me when he cut my hair in Yangon in January 2019. He sat on one those brightly coloured plastic schools, ubiquitous to South-East Asia, waiting patiently for customers. The counter of his open-fronted shop was covered with the paraphernalia of his trade - clippers, razors, hairdryers and sponges used to dampen necks about to be shaved. Despite his seeming patience, tiome appeared to be a preoccupation for Ky Myint Lwin. Two calendars and a clock hung on the wall as did a framed Koranic quotation and an aged electricity panel.

His elderly mother sat outside, talking to a group of traders from neighbouring stores and drinking tea from a nearby stall. She said that the barber’s chairs came from England and that they had been made in the 1950’s. I photographed Ko and his mother and was able to give them copies of the pictures before I left Yangon. I went back a year later to pay my respects and fund that they had sold the shop and retired.