Peluquería

Peluquería, Barbershop

I haven’t traveled enough to know this for sure but I think barbershops are pretty much the same all over the world. I have only been three times since I arrived in Spain. I used to keep my hair pretty long which tends to keep one out of barbershops. In these three visits I have noticed that my Spanish is definitely improving because I understand all of the chit chat that goes on between the barber and the other customers—at least when it is in Spanish and not Valenciano. I suppose the Valenciano will come later if I stay here for long enough. By my calculations I should understand Valenciano by my 20th haircut.

As has been my custom over the course of my entire life, I like to go to a real barbershop and not some hair emporium for boys. I just figure that I probably get a better haircut from someone who has been doing this their whole life instead of some pimply kid at the hip places who just learned how to use a pair of scissors. A couple of my favorite barbers have been women but all of the barbershops have been the same, and this includes the customers as well as the staff.

Barbershops are usually thinly-veiled houses of worship to professional sports and my new one is no exception. Posters claiming Amunt Valencia CF, or I love the local football team, cover the walls. The magazines are all related to this sport although the guy waiting next to me is reading the local paper. He is reading about football even though there hasn’t been a local game in over a month and there won’t be another for another month.

This is a one chair shop and my turn arrives. I take a seat and give him his instructions, “Muy, muy corto esta vez, por favor. No es la temporada para pelo largo.” I want it really short as it has been hot and sometimes humid these days. A short discussion of the weather follows. He starts to shear me like a spring sheep as the shop fills up. It’s rather small, about size of my bedroom, and with three customers waiting it is as full as a trendy bar during a Friday evening happy hour only more animated. An old guy, who just came in, jokes about the pile of what used to be my hair on the floor (Where do you think I got the line about a spring sheep?). As my hair comes off it, is like an arctic wind has entered the shop.

The barber tells a couple of jokes that I understand and I give a fake laugh. I suppose that telling bad jokes is sort of an occupational hazard in this industry. I add a few not-very-funny comments along the way, an occupational hazard of wise-asses who aren’t completely fluent in the language.

The barber finishes, I stand and pay, and as I leave everyone bids me farewell according to the custom here in Spain. I like this part about the Spanish barbershop.