Getting a Haircut

After more than a month of not having cut my hair I finally decided to seek out a hair cut place. I really didn’t want to spend a lot or spend my time in a salon with a bunch of yapping women. And, it gets hot here in Guate and my hair just gets thick so I just wanted a simple cut. No shampoo, no gel, no spray, nada.
I left my apartment and stepped out into blinding sunshine that after a week of misting rain and fog it was great to sweat again. I asked the ladies in my house where I could get a haircut and as soon as I did I regretted my decision and I should have known better, really.

I walked down the boulevard near my apartment and down toward the ladies had suggested I go. I walked for a bit and finally, inevitably came upon a large, hairspray-filled salon. I walked past it. I couldn’t do it. They were all watching novelas and laughing really loud. So I walked down to the old shopping center and looked around for a place to get a haircut. More salons. Great. Bummed out and disappointed about not finding a cheap haircut I walked back to the salon on the boulevard. Reluctantly, I passed the threshold. I asked a girl in a white coat with a bottle of spray in one hand and what looked like a wad of aluminum foil in the other what the wait was. Fifteen minutes, she said. The bulletin board said a haircut was Q175! Around 24 bucks. I sneaked outside and ran back to the shopping center convinced I missed something.

I wandered around slowly and out of the corner of my eye I saw a simple sign over a store that said simply barberia. The door was open slightly but from my angle all I could see were children’s booster seats and toys. I walked a few more steps and on the other side of the store were three men getting their haircut by three other guys. And they were watching futbol! And they had car magazines! And it was only Q40!

In about five minutes one of the short barbers nodded at me to have a seat. I sat down in the chair and he spun it around so I could watch the game. I loved this place already. He asked what I wanted. I said, shorter. He went about cutting my hair quickly, efficiently and comfortably. I never felt a rip, tug or pull. He was a pro.

Then, from behind my head somewhere I heard the familiar sound of paper ripping and a package being opened and right in front of my face, the barber asked if this particular razor blade was ok. Yeah, I told him, don’t know what you’re going to do with it because I didn’t ask for a shave. I went back to watching the game. From behind me I heard the scraping ping of a sharpening belt and the barber whipped out a massive straight razor and proceeded to trim all around the edges of my hair. Now, I have never had the, lets say, experience of being trimmed with a straight razor, so I feigned courage. And he was flying. Fzzing, zziing, shhzzzing. In a matter of seconds he was done and I, had nearly pissed myself.

After that was over he pulled out the mirror and showed me the back of my head. Something I always found embarrassing, almost as if he was saying, “Your head resembles a melon from back here.” I said it looked fine. But, he’s the pro. Shouldn’t he know what’s going on back there? He put the mirror away and fired up something with such ferocity and noise that I thought he started up a diesel generator. I looked down and he had fired up a shop-vac. A shop-vac! And he proceeded to suction my head into the nozzle. I felt all the skin on my head being folded in to the hose. The folds in my neck were suctioned in the vacuum and it felt surprisingly good. Better than a shampoo scrub, I’ll say. Before I knew it, it was all over. I paid my 40 Quetzales, thanked the guy and walked back home. Still walking fast past the salon.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License.