Haircut

I thought I would share this/record it for posterity's sake. The idea of a haircut is a simple one at best (at least for guys... with short, straight, blonde hair). I had grown tired of wearing a mop on my head in the heat of the Chilean summer, so I stopped into the local peluqueria just outside the metro stop by my house. I sat on the padded waiting bench of the aged barber shop, deflecting skeptical glances from the wrinkled and potentially ancient chilean man to my right. In front of my worked two people. A woman, whose five-year-old daughter was asking if she could eat a piece of candy, and a man. The man was paying more attention to this man's hair than probably the collective care given to my haircuts over the last five years. Additionally, his scissor technique was superb (to the point of being frightening, but more on that later). As this barber massaged this man's hair with his comb and clippers for the next half hour, I ruminated a little on what was about to befall my head. Normally (in the US that is), I go to Nice Cuts - where I receive nice treatment and a generally a nice cut too. At Nice Cuts in San Francisco, I forge my way through a language barrier. Huh! But that barrier is between English and some southeast Asian language I cannot identify. I found it funny, odd, fateful(?) that after years of acting out my haircut in the US, my hair/language difficulties would continue in Chile, this time with Spanish.

Finally, my time came. The stout, scruffy and slightly balding chilean summoned me from the couch to the chair for my turn under the scissors. I began explaining what I typically like for a hair cut. And by explaining I mean gesticulating with accents of Spanish tossed in for effect. He understood... with a broad smile. Silence ensued. It was broken by the sound of the clippers, normally innocuous, but not ominous. What did I actually ask for? Too late. The size 3.5 clippers hummed through my hair with ease and speed. With the majority of my hair on the floor, the barber brought out his scissors. Oh the scissors. It really wasn't so much the scissors themselves as the way he wielded them. Much like he turned on the clippers, I imagine he rolled up his sleeve and completed the circuit to some small motor in his wrist that caused his thumb and middle finger to twitch mechanically. Like pistons in an engine, or the unrelenting jaws of a piranha as it eats whatever it wants... like blonde hair. While all these images and fears rushed into my head, he still hadn't cut any hair. The scissors just rhythmically clanked together about four inches from my right ear as if he need to warm up his cutting hand before he went to town on my head. And so he did, for twenty or so seconds the hand twitched and the blades snapped until finally lumps of my hair fell to the floor at an astonishing pace.

My heart rate calmed as I realized those scissors would not be taking a pound of flesh from my scalp or ears. Then something magical happened. I don't know if anyone else likes this, but I find that when barbers trim the hair on the back of my neck, it makes the haircut exponentially better. Makes me feel clean, or something. Anyway, after he buzzed the back of my neck and lined up the hairline behind my ears, the magic happened. A little white cotton swab was dabbed in rubbing alcohol and wiped on my next. And upon seeing the straight blade razor, the remaining hairs needed no prodding, but stood straight up on their own. He proceeded to clearcut any remaining outlying hairs that should have escaped his watchful eye AND make this the most awesome haircut of all time.

For $8 and a half an hour of my time, I experienced the best haircut of my life. Needless to say, I will be squeezing in as many as I can in the next 4 months before I go home. The end.