Finding the right barber, the one who follows your instructions and cuts your hair as you want it, can be a challenge. Especially for us older folks. I came of age in the early to mid 1970s. Those were hard times for barbers. I only went in for the occasional trim whenever my father threatened to throw me out of the house for having hair that was too long for his liking– which like a lot of dads who grew up during the depression and World War 2, meant anything completely covering the ears and falling dangerously close to the shoulders.
By the time I was living on my own, the hippie look had fallen out of style and I was making a trip to the stylist every month or two. Back then, I had a great head of hair that was easy to work with– that was the opinion of virtually every hair cutter I visited.
Times have changed. I no longer part my hair down the middle as I did when younger; these days I brush it straight back. Any thoughts I harbored that my hair still impressed barbers was dispelled by the woman I have gone to the past few years. The first visit, she informed me that when I combed my hair back after trimming, my cuero cabelludo (scalp) was visible. Like a once lush jungle thinned out by loggers, I still had some cover, but the regrowth was slower and sparser than before.
I recently had gone a few months without a visit, and was rocking the wild haired Einstein look. I went to the parlor of my stylist. She was away, but a new young guy was there. I am wary of the young Tico barbers, of which there are many, because they are mainly adept with the electric trimmers, and trained in all of the popular looks such as the César Cut, the Messy Fade, the Wolf Cut, the Slicked Back and the Fringe Cut. (I copied these names off a chart showing the current trends). These young guys are good at the styles favored by other young guys.
My stepson has one of those types of haircut, and goes in every 15 days for a touch up. There are numerous places in town, all worked by dudes in their twenties and thirties, all sporting one of the neat buzzed down looks. Many of these places have only one barber who can do a scissors-only trim.
On this day, my new guy assured me he could trim my hair the way I wanted, which was about halfway, and even all around. No fades, no faux-hawks, no zigzag designs. No electric trimmers. He fastened the cape around my neck and went to work.
After several minutes of trimming, I glanced at the mirror and saw that both sides had been cut shorter than I wanted. “Un poco mas corto que queria.” He briefly worked on the top of my head, brushed it back and turned me back toward the mirror. It was very short on the sides and piled high on my head like some latter day electronic music artist. I told him to go ahead and cut the top down until it was proportionate with the sides.
After almost forty minutes– it usually takes 15-20, I had what was essentially a brush cut, a fashionable look for 1960. At least it was clean and even. I thanked him and paid and consoled myself with the knowledge that it would grow back – and that on my next trip in a few months I would be sure to make an appointment with the woman who knows the style I prefer.
