¿Mas corte?

I (Sean) have now had haircuts on 3 continents. However, today was my first haircut where the barber and I have not spoken the same language. My survival-quality Spanish has come along quite well, and I feel confident asking prices, directions, and participating in the predictable conversations one has with cashiers, taxi drivers, and waiters. Unfortunately, hair cut lingo does not fall into this category. So this morning I quickly skimmed through the Spanish/English dictionary to collect a few important words, and then headed out the door.

I had scoped out a barbería a few days ago, located next to a favorite restaurant, Crepes and Waffles. Upon reaching the barber shop and peeking inside, I saw that it was empty save for a 20-something man - heavily tattooed, sculpted facial hair and no shirt. Huh. My internal commentary said something along the lines of “at least this will make for an interesting blog entry.” In I go.

He looks up over the newspaper he has been reading, sighs, and points to the other chair. I sit down and watch in the mirror as he grabs a white smock off a hook and buttons it up. Apparently it had been a bit hot inside the shop, so he was keeping cool until his first customer showed. Lucky me.

“¿Mas corte?” he says. Based on my crash course with the dictionary, I think this means “shorter,” so I nod. I pull out my ID card sporting a headshot taken last July (about 2 weeks after my last haircut, received in Bellingham before we had left for Colombia). He takes and studies it for about 3 seconds, nods, and hands it back.

Arranged on either side of the mirror are two small shelves. The right shelf displays 4 different clippers and a box of clipper guards of various lengths. Shelf left has a few combs and brushes, and a pair of scissors. Shelf right will see more action today. (Interesting side note: left of shelf left is a large wall painting of a devilish snowboarder, fangs and all, in mid jump. The bottom of the board says “!DIE”. I am not sure what to think of this, but any preconceived notions of your friendly neighborhood barber shop quartet are now definitely out the window.)

I have plenty of time to contemplate this as the marathon haircut progresses. Time is not of the essence in Latin America. Clippers buzz until the miniature blades are hot against my skin. Finally, pleased with his work, Mr. Tattoo flicks off the switch, grabs a spray water bottle, and sets to work with the scissors he has neglected up until now.

At about this time a father and his pre-school aged daughter walk in and take a seat, waiting for me to finish. I want to say to them “Do you see that painting on the wall!?” I don’t, and apparently they don’t either, because they are sitting there 20 minutes later when I finally am allowed to wrestle off the smock and emerge from the chair.

The end result is not bad, and surprisingly similar to the tiny photo now safely in my wallet. “¿Cuantos cuesta?,” I ask. He mutters, “Ocho.” For you gringos, that’s 8,000 pesos – about $3.50 US.

As I make my way out the front door, I think, where else could I get a tattooed shirtless devil snowboarder to cut my hair? Welcome to Colombia!