B A C K T O T H E T A I L H U N T E R W E B S I T E
SNIP-IT OF MEXICAN LIFE - Published September 2005 - Western Outdoor News
SNIP IT OF MEXICAN LIFE
You will never find this little bit of advice in a Baja Travel Book. “Never ever ever get a haircut in a place where you do not understand what the barber is saying.”
There comes a point where even someone as hair-challenged as myself (losing hair fast!) has to go get a trim and I’ve had some decent trims here in Mexico, but I was in a rush yesterday and ran into the first barbershop I could find down a little alley.
It was the only shop open I could find during the blazing hot mid-day siesta. Old Mexican comics lay on the tattered vinyl seats. A framed picture of Che Guevarra hung cockeyed on the wall next to another framed photo of John Wayne. The never-ending-Mexican-soccer game blared from a TV in a dimly lit corner while a dog that was missing half his fur lolled lazily by the door and I had to step over him to enter the shop.
The barber looked up and I pointed to the advertisement on his window that announced a “special cut $35 pesos.” Well for 35 pesos (about $3.50) it was such a deal. How bad could it be? As a comparative lesson in culture and economics, there’s two ways of looking at that price.
It was the only shop open I could find during the blazing hot mid-day siesta. Old Mexican comics lay on the tattered vinyl seats. A framed picture of Che Guevarra hung cockeyed on the wall next to another framed photo of John Wayne. The never-ending-Mexican-soccer game blared from a TV in a dimly lit corner while a dog that was missing half his fur lolled lazily by the door and I had to step over him to enter the shop.
The barber looked up and I pointed to the advertisement on his window that announced a “special cut $35 pesos.” Well for 35 pesos (about $3.50) it was such a deal. How bad could it be? As a comparative lesson in culture and economics, there’s two ways of looking at that price.
To me, it was a cheap haircut. To me, that amount means 2 minutes and I’m outta there with a little off the ears and neck. To the little barber with one scissors and comb missing a lot of teeth, three-and-a-half-bucks mighta been big money. To him…well…that means he’s gonna give me every single snip I’m entitled to for that money. He was going to give me the equivalent of a $150 Beverly Hills Jose Eber designer cut. Bottom line…”cheap” is a relative term!
Here’s another bit of advice. Besides never using a barber you can’t understand, if there’s no mirrors turn around and walk out. My second mistake. I didn’t notice until I was seated and prepped.
When the first run through with the scissors took a lot longer than 2 minutes and I could feel chunks of hair tumbling down my shoulders, I got nervous. After 5 minutes, I could already tell that he was doing stuff to my noggin I didn’t want. I said something. He said something in reply and laughed. In fact he laughed a lot. I couldn’t understand the Spanish. I don’t know the word for “mirror.” It’s not a word that I use a lot. I could sure feel a lot of cool breeze “up there.”
Two kids and another patron waiting in the seats kept smiling and giggling and looking at me. The barber made one comment that I was sure was about me and one of the kids could not stop laughing. The other kids looked at me, grinned and winked. Oh-oh…a wink.
I really wanted to make the barber stop. So, in my working Spanish, I explained that the reason I needed a good haircut was because I had just found out that I’m going to be given some kind of award or plaque next week. It’s going to be at a public ceremony and the mayor of La Paz and possibly the governor of Southern Baja will be there. I’m also supposed to make some kind of speech. (A whole ‘nother can ‘o’ worms!).
“Ahhhhhh…Bueno!” said my barber with enthusiasm. I guess he understood me that time, but with another flourish, he attacked my head again with shears and comb in another round of snip and cut ala Edward Scissorhands working a hedge. I don’t have enough hair on my head to take 20 minutes. To make matters worse, I suddenly felt him matting my hair with…butch wax pomade! He might as well have been slicking me down with axle grease. I hadn’t used butch wax since my 2nd grade first communion. Someone just shoot me. What next? A pencil-thin mustache?
With that he spun me around, pulled out a little 8 inch cracked hand mirror and whipped off my barber cape with a grin and flourish as if he had just completed a masterpiece. Voila and Arriba! Yup…I got my 35 pesos worth. Whoop-dee-freakin’-doo.
I hear the newspapers and the local TV station will be at the awards ceremony next week to record my every goof and gaffe and butchering of the Spanish language. Friends and family want lots of pictures of a rare occasion when I am in slacks, shirt and tie that only get used for funerals and weddings these days.
Here’s another bit of advice. Besides never using a barber you can’t understand, if there’s no mirrors turn around and walk out. My second mistake. I didn’t notice until I was seated and prepped.
When the first run through with the scissors took a lot longer than 2 minutes and I could feel chunks of hair tumbling down my shoulders, I got nervous. After 5 minutes, I could already tell that he was doing stuff to my noggin I didn’t want. I said something. He said something in reply and laughed. In fact he laughed a lot. I couldn’t understand the Spanish. I don’t know the word for “mirror.” It’s not a word that I use a lot. I could sure feel a lot of cool breeze “up there.”
Two kids and another patron waiting in the seats kept smiling and giggling and looking at me. The barber made one comment that I was sure was about me and one of the kids could not stop laughing. The other kids looked at me, grinned and winked. Oh-oh…a wink.
I really wanted to make the barber stop. So, in my working Spanish, I explained that the reason I needed a good haircut was because I had just found out that I’m going to be given some kind of award or plaque next week. It’s going to be at a public ceremony and the mayor of La Paz and possibly the governor of Southern Baja will be there. I’m also supposed to make some kind of speech. (A whole ‘nother can ‘o’ worms!).
“Ahhhhhh…Bueno!” said my barber with enthusiasm. I guess he understood me that time, but with another flourish, he attacked my head again with shears and comb in another round of snip and cut ala Edward Scissorhands working a hedge. I don’t have enough hair on my head to take 20 minutes. To make matters worse, I suddenly felt him matting my hair with…butch wax pomade! He might as well have been slicking me down with axle grease. I hadn’t used butch wax since my 2nd grade first communion. Someone just shoot me. What next? A pencil-thin mustache?
With that he spun me around, pulled out a little 8 inch cracked hand mirror and whipped off my barber cape with a grin and flourish as if he had just completed a masterpiece. Voila and Arriba! Yup…I got my 35 pesos worth. Whoop-dee-freakin’-doo.
I hear the newspapers and the local TV station will be at the awards ceremony next week to record my every goof and gaffe and butchering of the Spanish language. Friends and family want lots of pictures of a rare occasion when I am in slacks, shirt and tie that only get used for funerals and weddings these days.
What I now fear is that they will also record my shiny bolo head that looks like a combination of prickly cactus dotting the Baja desert and what my dad’s lawn looks like with splotches in places the dog pee killed the grass and only dirt shows through. If Universal Studios needs someone to play the guy who survived through nuclear fallout, I’m your guy. If you don’t see me take off my bandana for the next few months, even at dinner, you’ll know why. Life in the Baja. Andale!
That’s my story…
That’s my story…
Jonathan
posted by Jonathan @ 10:53 AM
<< Home