I haven't been for ten years or more but I'm glad I went when I did as a shampoo was included in the price. As anyone familiar with the Turkish Bath would know, there was a lot more to this than the name suggests: you were laid out on a cool marble slab - as if you were the subject of a pathologist - then covered in bubbles generated by an unfeasibly large sponge. You were then scrubbed down by something that felt like a large, soft and stubby shaving brush before being thoroughly sluiced. Very pleasant.
The procedure was carried out by an elderly gentleman who looked like an older version of the man in the picture (though it couldn't be him as the site where it comes from dates it from the 1930s - perhaps it was his Dad?) and I believe it came to an end on his retirement. He made quite an impression on me as he was diminutive, almost bald and hairless and with the palest, softest, pinkest, marshmallow-like skin I've ever seen. The product of spending literally decades inhabiting a steamy, wet, artificially-lit environment. Phenotypic adaptation.
The Saturday morning patrons (my usual time) were an interesting mix: an older crowd of fat, hairy-arsed cockney taxi drivers formed one group with another consisting of toned, hairless young gays. Both groups dozed in the little day beds dotted around the rest room, sleeping off a hard night's cabbing or clubbing. I liked to think I'd be mistaken for one of the lithe young fellows but friends informed me, even back then, that it looked more likely that I'd just swung out from behind a wheel. Jealous obviously.