The Barber Transfer

Antonio, por favor. Barber extraodinaire.

Sometimes you just know. I knew before I got there, intrigued. We had to go to his apartment to get it. He only works from home now. A recent heart attack put paid to the stresses of everyday salon life. The cut and thrust gets to you. The smell of hairspray. All those perms, bleaches and listening to frozen faced wenches and their vicious gossip hardens the arteries like cheese left out. And if that doesn't chisel away at your innards the posters of 1990s male models with wanker hair on rocky beaches, staring at the sea pining for some Dakar bound sailor would most certainly induce a powerful stroke.

His wife* offered to cut but once you are over 12 letting a woman cut your hair is saying 

There's something wrong with me.

So with the grudging directions of the snubbed we made our way to his apartment block. I was sweaty as a monks cax by the time we got to the building. A hidden porter buzzed us in and told us our man lived in 506. The couches in the hallway hadn't been sat on in weeks and the dust drifted lazily through air like many of the residents did life. At least the lift worked, even if it shuddered and you jumped a little when it stopped. The old corridors were poorly lit and the sun outside made everything darker. The first 506 we went to was obviously the wrong 506. A youth in his underpants silently thumbed us on to the next 506.** 

After a minute or so the door was opened by a bra-less black slave smoking a fag who didn't ask us who we were and just said 

Come in.

She exhaled postcoitally and disappeared down the corridor and into the kitchen, never to be seen again and casting doubts as to whether she existed. Any doubts as to whether we'd just walked in and were sitting on some strangers sofa at half one on a Friday afternoon were soon quashed. A worn white barbers chair sat sadly on the carpet beside the massive HDTV and recently used VCR. 

After some minutes Mr. Barros himself came in, looking dishevelled and friendly. His shiny purple tracksuit top half zipped up revealing more chest hair than was decent. He grumbled about the lack of an advance call a bit but didn't ask how we got in - so the escravo does exist I remember thinking. Mr. Barros set about unfurling the plastic sheeting that protected the neglected living room carpet with the gusto of a happy crackhead. He was wearing pointed black boots. I liked him.

Unit of weight in Recife

Mr. Barros is what Mauro Shampoo*** could have been if at some point he hadn't decided to wage war on time and begun regularly injecting himself with bulls blood and getting Mrs. Shampoo to fix long Mexican pubis implants to his head. His springy hair has thinned considerably in recent times though you suspect it has plateaued to the point where it could still effortlessly maintain a King Size Snickers without wilting. 

...He'd been recommended to me for months but I'd demurred. A whisper here, the odd  phonecall from my sogro telling me to call around later to check out his hair... 

I found myself with a towel around neck staring the wall while the the unkempt sitting room was being transformed as suddenly as the Batcave. A mirror was put on to the wall and all was good in the world. Brazilian hairdressers have one default cut. Once you understand this concept things don't seem so daunting. Constant cajoling, encouragement and praise needs to be doled out. 

Antonio, por favor

No wonder Antonio, por favor's heart attacked him

was measuring my hair (with what to all intents and purposes looked like a calipers) when I asked him to go tighter all around. His breathing got a little more laboured but I suspect this had more to do with what he was up to before we arrived unannounced. Either his wife hadn't phoned on or he'd been too busy to answer. In his wisdom he figured a Führer style parting complimented my face. He enquired as to my satisfaction and my response didn't matter. He sensed unease in the style and quickly remedied it by switching the parting to the left. We nodded to signal the end as men do to barbers, who know the signs.

After a thorough talcing by a lovely soft orange brush all over the face we were finished. All smiles, we embraced. A light squeeze only as I was wary of his heart though I'd have loved to have bear hugged the fucker. Antonio, por favor suggested a return visit in a month though reiterated his preference for the advance call so he could set up some tunes and maybe a little coffee. 

We parted on the street, him for a walk on the beach before his next client, me to look at some holy lads adding big red anti-Satan letters to the church which shares part of the building. VICTORY WITH GOD they taunted, for some reason. They didn't notice my Hitler-do. Their sign was protection enough.

I've been back since, Antonio, por favor stuck on The Rolling Stones Live from Toronto on the telly for me and sang along with words that were no language. At one point during Let's Spend the Night Together he left the room only to come back doing a Jaggeresque walk which took an uncomfortable 10 seconds to complete. Oh, scissors in hand all the while too. Snipping. No problem to him, he said

That Mick Jagger, he is some lad! I can't believe he's not a gayboy! Lets take a break for some coffee.

Which we did.****
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* All barbers are married to hairdressers.

** Having previously worked as an occasional postman, I instantly thought that an A and a B affixed after each number would solve this problem. This was before I thought about it and realised that such things aren't problems here at all. Such thoughts and solutions to non-existing problems would be considered subversive and the bureaucratic calamity such a suggestion would unleash could very well set in motion a series of events bewildering enough for the participants to question the fabric on which order and progress is sustained and inadvertently cause the collapse of this whole sorry affair. Recife as a 2014 World Cup Host City would be doomed. And nobody wants that.

***After the Mr. Shampoo's scalpery during the World Cup (see previous entry) I decided that a man who professes to be a barber but also acts and has a regular slot as a football pundit on local TV can't be taking his coiffuring duties seriously enough. Even if his business card proudly states his manliness.

**** It seems that Mr. Barros is so good at cutting hair that some Italians wanted to take him to Milan, where they said he would have been a revelation. He decided not to go in the end. Apparently he demanded a driver who spoke Portuguese and a rent free apartment.