Hassab Ras alZboun or 'It Depends on Your Face'

It must be well known to anyone out there that one major tradition in the Middle Eastern culture is to negotiate over the price of certain items.

‘If you don’t haggle, you will get screwed’, my very first landlord in Beirut told me. (My landlord told me that of course after he had majorly screwed me with a rent of $250 for a shack on the roof, when real estate in Beirut was still affordable, and you could get a 250 square meter apartment in the city center, with a view, for a mere $300.)

You haggle over the price of a ride in a taxi, the price of furniture, the price of labor, how much the plumber should get for fixing the sink, the rent, and you can even barter over the price of a fridge in a genuine warehouse. Little did I know then.

Now I know, but – being from a Dutch culture, where we lack fantasy at times – I still cannot haggle. What is worse, with a foreign face, the price is likely to be hiked up even more. The Lebanese adhere to the principle of ‘hassab ras alzboun’, which translates into the price ’depends on the face of the customer’.

One of the first things I learned when shopping with hubbie for things for the house was; “Do not smile or point at the things you like. What am I saying? Do not even look at the things you like! Keep walking, and after a while you can quietly whisper in my ear what caught your attention. And I will then go back and check it out.”
What he meant to say was that any salesman could read from my face what item I liked and how much I was willing to pay for it, which was at least five times more then it was worth, according to hubbie.
And so I strolled through stores with a face of thunder. I’ve become quite an expert at it. Shopping with me would give you the impression that I thought the entire place stinks.

I was lucky; the husband of a Dutch friend of mine would not even let her out of the car until he had surveyed the store, saw what was out there and what the owner was willing to let go at what price. When that was established, the ‘foreign wife’ was allowed to enter. By that time, the shop owner was stuck, so to speak. Had he known the ‘khawasja’ (gentleman) had a foreign wife, then surely he would be able to pay a good price. Because somehow, many hundreds of years ago, the price of a foreign wife must have been higher than that of a local wife (harhar).

But as any wife must know, shopping with your partner is a pain. And so I shop alone. If there is something that I think is nice, I jot down the logistics, and send hubbie on his way. This also takes care of the bill and transportation. Very handy, if I may say so.

But I was a bit stuck last week. Hubbie was out of town, and I had seen this painting while driving by a store. I must have passed this store quite a number of times, and every time I drove by, I was struck by that same painting. The first time I thought it just looked nice. The second time it looked nicer. The third time I thought it probably had already been sold as it was so nice, and was surprised that it was still there. And this process repeated itself a number of times, until I thought, I’ve got to buy it.

However, in that particular neighborhood, known for its so-called ‘antique shops’, they are renowned for ‘screwing their customers’. It is all about ‘the price depends on the face of the customer’.

Me, being a foreigner, and a bad haggler, would not only be double-screwed, but probably triple-screwed. How much was it worth? I thought it could easily go for $500. Maybe $600. What if he’d ask $700? Would I buy it? I’d have to give up some plans this summer. But it was worth it. What if he’d ask $800? Or more! Hubbie would have a heart attack. Dilemma dilemma.

And then an old aunt passed by. She’s wearing black, as she is in mourning over the recent death of a relative. Her arthritis makes her walk with a slight limp. She is somewhere in her 60’s. And she is a vicious haggler. I hurried her into my car, and parked around the corner of the store. Off she went; a woman on a mission.

She was back within a minute. “He wanted $100. I said: “No special price for me?” so he let it go for $90. I told him he could get $75 for that piece of junk. You want it?”

Do I want it for $75?

You could see the salesman’s face drop when around the corner came the lanky blond foreigner with her car keys jing-jangling in her hand, sunglasses the size of fly-eyes and a dainty little shoulder bag.

He had ‘I am screwed’ written all over his face. So the price depends on the customer’s face, huh? In your face!

Now if anyone can tell me who painted the original, that would be nice. Ooof, this was a long post about nothing. Glad you could make it to the end.