In my numerous visits to the Middle East, I frequently pay someone to hold a knife to my throat. Actually it’s a razor, but either way I’m aware that one quick twist of the wrist could bring a quick end to my life. Time and again, however, all that happens is that my stubbly whiskers get removed. Sometimes pain is involved, but that’s only when the razor is set aside and the man fills his palms with cologne, slapping it on my cheeks and neck and rubbing it in -- burn, baby, burn! I’m speaking, of course, of the barbershop.