Hey guys,
So its more than one year since I've touched this blog (I swear I will put some more work into it really!) And many important things in my life have happened since then. Finally getting a job after a long 7 month search, traveling back home to Australia after 3 and a half years, yet can you believe? I'm not even going to touch any of these subjects. You guessed it from such a strange title. I’m going to talk about my… BARBER, and I swear this one comes straight out of an episode of Seinfield.
Now a little background. Generally in Brazil you have two places to get your hair cut. You can go to the expensive salons, or you can go to the dirt cheap places. We’re talking the grand total of 6 Reais – that’s dirt cheap even for a Brazilian. So where do you think I fit.. in the land of snobs, or the land of guys who don’t want to spend any more than they have to. Yep, my friendly barber cuts my hair for the price of a decent lunch.
The location where… well, I can’t think of a more witty description.. "get my hair cut" isn’t much more than three walls (the forth wall is a garage type door), a roof, a couple of chairs other than the barber chairs and a pile of magazines. We aren’t talking super chic but at least the waiting chairs are somewhat padded.
Mostly the barbers come and go. There are the old guys that rarely move on and then the guys that are desperate for a buck. Gotta be careful of those guys. They don’t know how to cut! I had a guy have a fairly decent go at cutting my ear off with the trimmers.. twice! He’s better now, after he took my simple advice “Cut my hair not my ears”.....but now he’s gone on to better things.
Normally I sit down, grab a magazine and wait for the first barber that’s available. I don’t particularly care about my hair. At long as its short its fine. The shorter the better. Now I’ve been foolish enough to go down on a Saturday after I’ve left it far too late and we have to go out in less than hour. Of course there’s a big line up and there’s some woman (what are they doing at a barbers?!) in the chair getting her hair straightened. Getting your hair straightened takes hours. I know I’ve watched for long enough. Watching them combing and combing the hair along with heating the hair with the hairdryer (its far too complicated, I can’t explain it). Then finally they move onto the next strand of hair… where was I.. oh yes Ronaldo is going out with this new model…. Gotta love those magazines….I look at my watch once again knowing that I shouldn’t have even bothered walking in. There’s no way I’m going to be able to get it cut today. I stand up, feint to go and grab a another magazine and make a break for the door.
That was one of my weekends. My hair was particularly long at this time and those who wear afros were giving me jealous looks in the street. So I can’t even wait till next weekend. I can’t even wait till tomorrow. It has to be done TODAY. So straight after work Monday I was there. I sit down and the guy who has been cutting my hair the last couple of times told me that he’d be right with me. I think he saw (or did he miss it?) my fancy exit on the weekend. I go to pick up that magazine and his colleague offers to cut my hair. I’ve never seen her in my life, but then she was the first one available. I get up and sit down in her chair. On my way past my regular barber, he gives me the most chilling of looks. I sit down knowing full well I’ve upset him and now there’s no way back. I tell her to cut it… short.. and well..cuts it
short. Shorter than I normally get it cut, but then again the previous barbers have been all too chicken to cut it as short as I like it. This all during more chilling side glances from the regular barber. I like it, stand up, pay and I don’t have to wait long before the usual barber (who I’ve been trying to think of what to say to try and cover up the fuckup I’ve done) exclaims “That’s a bit short isn’t it?” picture a bloodshot eye stare.
“Yeah” I say forgetting whatever the pitiful phrase was I thought of as a cover up. Not knowing what else to say or do, I say bid farewell until next time and shake his hand. Feeble gesture, but at least that stare of his is gone.
I arrive home and explain what happened to my dear wife. “Angry? Nah, maybe you understood the situation wrong”. She claims.
“Maybe” I say, its true I normally read situations all wrong. Especially if I’m working with Portuguese. But then this time I know I’m wrong. Who can doubt the chill still going down the back of my neck. Those stares don’t go away.
So yesterday was the day I returned to get my flock of wool shorn after too many a busy weekend. Yep, Monday. I sit, and I see the grey flash of hair that is my regular barber. He turns and.. argh the torture.. the eyes are..... oh not.....phew.. not chilling, they dont even look cold. Looks like his normal look. Normal Brazilian greetings are exchanged. There are other barbers free, but this time there’s no way I can do it again. This time I’ve learnt my lesson and I will wait for my normal barber. Thankfully the guy he’s working on hasn’t got curly hair, and he’s not getting it straightened. I can barely see what colour it is its so short. A few short minutes and he’s done. He gestures and I’m on my way.
“Same normal usual cut?” he asks.
“That’s right” I respond. Maybe I did have it wrong. He seems fine, and starts with the trimmers. Though he did drop that hint “same NORMAL cut” I start worrying as he starts cutting Bzz bzz, and my hair starts to fall. He seems a bit jabby with that trimmers, but then again my hair has grown particularly long and thick. Doubt starts to set in after he grabs the comb and starts on top each time seeming to jab it into my skull each time as he combs at it. But then again..I’ve had a barber attack my head like this before. Was it that guy who tried to cut my ear off?
After some time he stops with the pain and starts getting my hair into shape. The end is coming, and I can feel he’s going to say something. He grabs the gel. “Don’t worry” I say, but its too late, he already has a blob of it in his hands (why waste perfectly good gel when you have to wash out all those little annoying pieces of hair as soon as you get home?) I put on my glasses and he grabs the mirror. I notice it’s a little on the long side, but there’s no way I’m telling him to cut it a little shorter.
“Perfect” I say. Only now I realize the rest of the barbers have gone and its just me and him. Maybe they know what’s coming next. Then it does, he spills the beans on the mess that the other barber made of my hair, how it was really short. He’s remembered everything, I knew I was right. I’m not that lucky.... I babble in Portuguese a lame forgive me, and claim stupidity as a foreigner that doesn’t know the customs of Brazilian barbers. He weakens a bit and explains that if I like his work I can wait for him, and that I don’t have to go to any barber that’s free, after all they could make a mess of it like she did. He asks if my mother liked it. “My mum didn’t see it, but my wife did think it was a bit short” I respond. He smiles and it seems all is forgiven, but yet I feel the need to make sure and pledge that he will be my barber for ever.
I look properly in the mirror when I get home. I don’t think I’ve ever seen me with this style before in my life. Same normal cut? pfft! Thankfully though I don’t look like a 5 year old Jerry Seinfeld...But woo, what the hell have I done? Why am I so concerned with a Barber's feelings that I decided to commit myself to a lifetime of strange haircuts? Whats wrong with me?
