It is that time again, I am getting shaggy and my wife keeps mentioning I look insane. It is time for professional help, I have got to go to the barber.
My barber (like everything else here) is only a short walk from the house. The little shop is in a cute little neighborhood on a moderately busy street. The tiny building is painted hot pink outside. The little colmado to the right is lime green, and the banca to left is bright white and blue. There is a man in the chair already so I sit outside the door to wait my turn.
Most of the street traffic is kids, pasolas, and people walking so it is a pleasant place to pass the time. Three or four kids have those little two wheel scooters and are zipping recklessly up and down the sidewalk with an occasional fall. An older boy on a pasola does a wheelie down the length of the street in hopes of attracting the attention of some girls passing by. A middle aged lady passes in search of the evening groceries while a few men gather around a domino game to relax after a days work.
Eventually the evening mosquitos arrive (I am always the first to know about that), so I head inside for refuge under the huge ceiling fan. The building has an unusual entrance the door sill is about 12 inches above the floor, inside and out. There is one rather awkward looking shuttered window wide open with a view down the street. The 12 by 12 foot room used to be a nice white at one point, but could use a fresh coat after a few years of abuse. The tin roof is supported by an interesting assortment of rafters entwined by the usual rat's nest of electrical wiring. There are two very well used mirrors, on in front, and another on the back wall. There are three faded nearly naked pin-up girls hanging on the wall, a japanese, a latin and a blond. Usually, he has music playing but for whatever reason the stereo was missing from its usual spot on the shelf. The electricity is out again so the generator is humming away behind the building.
Soon it is my turn in the chair. I sit in a well worn but comfortable barber chair. The barber, Hosea, wraps paper around my neck and then the cape. In the absense of a stereo, Hosea feels obligate to sing so he starts up with the latest tune. He has two well used but good condition white handled clippers and a whole pile of various attachements sitting on what looks to be a old dressing table. The table is equiped with a few bottles of various hair gels, that nice powder barbers all seem to have, two shaving brushes, and a box of razors.
I dont have much time to bother with my hair, so I go with my regular buzz cut and he gets to work with the clippers. My dad cut my hair for most of my life before I moved to the DR so as I sit quietly I am reminded of the many haircuts in the basement of my parents house. Soon the clipper work is done and he take out the scissors.
I dont know much about Hosea. He is a young guy, maybe 30 or so. Like most people here he always waves when I see him around town. His pasola has been modified to have a 10 inch speaker and stereo mounted under the seat. Like most dominican men his age everytime I have seen him he is always dressed in nice clothes and in the daytime sunglasses.
When he is done with the scissors he takes out a fresh razor, mounts it in a straight razor and carefully begins to trim around the edges. Soon I am being dusted down with that nice smelling powder. He knows I dont like the gel in my hair so he doesnt bother to ask me if I want any. The cape is off and the floor is being swept up while I fish the 50 pesos (about $1.25) to pay him.
As I walk home in the dark feeling all neat for a change I am thankful that I have an invertor. They are becoming more common in town but only the upper middle class can really afford them. I enter my house to be greeted by two big hugs by two little kids and a "Daddy!!! you got a haircut!!!"