The Spanish Barbershop

My locks had become too long and unmanageable, especially over my ears, and I decided to go for a much-needed haircut. I would have gone to my old hairdresser, except that at $15, was a bit too much. After asking around, I ended up with two suggestions: either an Italian barbershop or a Spanish barbershop. The person who suggested the former said they do a good job and is cheap, at $10, but that the owners' son was a bit racist, directing his rants at "Pakis". On the other hand, the Spanish barbershop was a bit more, at $12, and the barbers take their time, "about 45 minutes," according to Adnaan, my brother.

Finally, Saturday dawned, and after my long run, I decided to go for a mane-trimming. I went with my brother's suggestion. Nunez's Barbershop was located in Port Jefferson Station, right after the train tracks. I pulled into one of the public parking lots and headed down Main Street. On my 40 yard walk, I encountered a homeless man, sitting in the windowsill of a store, cursing at no one in particular. "Interesting," I thought, and continued on. I entered the barbershop, walked down about halfway, and took a seat on the long blue vinyl bench running along the length of the wall. A Spanish ditty was playing over the stereo system, and the Jetsons, muted of course, was playing on the TV hanging in the far corner. There were about 4 or 5 customers, of all different ethnicities, seated around me, and 7 barbers busy humming or chatting away in Spanish, in no apparent hurry to let their customers go, while the customers on the bench waited patiently. 45 minutes sounded about right.

I took a longer look around the store. The walls were painted sky blue and mirrors ran along the front wall. Barbershop certificates were displayed proudly above the mirrors, and green Mexican peso and American dollar bills were taped to the mirrors. On the wall behind me was a large flag from the Dominican Republic. The soothing smell of talcum powder and aftershave permeated the air, and the ambient sound was punctuated with the humming of trimmers. Occasionally, the guy down at the far end would chime in with the conversation, passionately making his point. The song changed, the conversation ended, and the barbers joined in on the chorus blaring from the radio. Every so often, a barber would finish with a customer, a payment would be made, and the deal would be sealed with a handshake. Cool.

After about 10 minutes, it was my turn. My barber was a beefy guy, about 5'10", with a generous midsection and a chinstrap beard, wearing a black-and-white shirt showing common toiletry items. I sat down in the chair, he turned around to arrange his tools, wrapped a bit of a paper towel around my neck, and then covered me with a bright red drape. He took a brush and straightened out my hair, front to back.

"What do you want?," he asked quietly.
"About this much on the top and this much on the side," spacing my fingers about a half inch and eight of an inch apart.

He put a clip on his trimmer and then proceeded to shorten the sides of my overgrown mane, buzzing back and forth as he moved around my head. He glanced every so often in the mirror, checking the eveness of the cut. Once he was satisfied, he placed the trimmer back on the counter, picked up a towel, and draped it over my right shoulder. Then came the foldable safety razor. I gulped. Gently, he trimmed away at the edges, at the temple, below my sideburns, over the ears, and at the nape. While my head was down, he tapped on my shoulder.

"Huh?"
"Round or square?"
"Round please."

The gentle scritch-scratch of the razor continued. With a trimmer, he edged away the area between the top and sides, and then with a brush, arranged my hair in perfectly straight rows. He took the water sprayer, sprayed some on his hands and wiped down where he had previously applied the razor, in gentle circular motions. After weeks of clamoring for a massage, this felt pretty good. Sure, it wasn't for the muscles in my neck, which was slowly healing, but a massage is a massage. I found my eyelids closing, but then quickly forced them open again. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the customer in the chair next to mine drifting off to sleep. By now, more customers had come in, including a 1-year old baby with his mother. The tempo of the song changed, and mother started waving baby's arms around in sync with the rhythm.

By now, the barber had taken the trimmer to the top, punctuating every so often with a pair of scissors. He made eye contact with me, I nodded satisfaction with the chop job, and out came the brush again. More neatening of the rows, back and forth. More massaging for me. Then he tilted my head down, unbuttoned the red drape, and scritch-scratched one last time. Off came the drape, and I hauled myself out of the chair, taking a few glances in the mirror. Happy with the job the barber I did, I handed him $22 and got my change back. Sealing the deal with a handshake, I headed out to the street. Muy bueno!