Men and Their Barber

9 of 40

Hello! I’m Walther, this is Peregerino, and you’re about to read essay #9 of “40 Before 40,” a memoir I intend to finish before I enter midlife. A few other pieces that people have enjoyed are “Just obese,” “On death and loss,” and “On repetition.” Feel free to peruse!

In this week’s essay, I reflect on one of my longest relationships, aside from family ties, the one with my barber. To some extent, I’m making it a multi-generational affair. Keep on reading to find out what I mean by that.

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I looked like I had a fro during the first decade of my life. I don’t know why my parents left my then-curly hair to grow that long. It was the eighties; fashion could’ve influenced their decision. Maybe they believed Dolly Parton’s words, “The bigger the hair, the closer to God.” Regardless of their reasons, I wish I had gotten haircuts regularly.

Then, a hustling woman named Romelia started cutting hair from her home. “Estetica Unisex Romel”¹ was within walking distance from my home, so I started going there. Her living room was a waiting area, and instead of a dining table and credenza, she had a barber chair, a huge mirror, and shelves with tools lined the wall. She lived upstairs with her son, and up until today, I don’t know if she is a single mom or what.

She might have invented “work from home.”

Romi, as we would call her, cut my hair until I went to college. Even though I was still living within walking distance from her salon, getting a cut around campus was more convenient. However, non of these barbers made an impression on me. 

Cut to 2012; I now live in Phoenix, where I know zero people. Eventually, I needed a haircut, so the hunt for the perfect barber began. I didn’t have a car the first year I lived here; however, the mall was close enough for me to walk there. The mall had a salon and a barber; one was awful, and the other was nothing to write home about.

I got a haircut from a guy with a heavy Eastern European accent that, according to him, had many Mexican friends. So he made very inappropriate comments about women's body parts in Spanish. That was the first and last time I set foot in there—one star.

Once I got a car, my options grew. I started going to this other barber shop where Russian old-timers played backgammon while waiting for customers. They didn’t talk much while working, which was an upgrade but still not great. I must have sampled a few of these fellows until one time; this Johnny-Bravo-looking dude was the only barber available. So I sat in the chair. That’s how I met Mike, the only non-Russian in the shop.

The year was 2013, and I had just started dating Diana, so I paid much attention to grooming. Mike is about as tall as I am but weighs half what I did back then. He gave off this bro vibe with his gallon jug full of a sometimes light green, occasionally light red liquid that I later learned was amino acids. He was cool, easy-going, and, most importantly, good at his trade. And he worked fast; I could be in and out of there in twenty minutes with a fresh cut.

Mike was also in high demand; I had to book an appointment a week in advance, at least, to ensure I’d get a haircut from him. I’d tell him about Diana and how the relationship was going. Eventually, I told him I would take her to Mexico to meet my family, so he went the extra mile to make me look great for the pictures. He even gave me a haircut before I flew to California to get married to Diana. He has been there in those key moments of my life.

Mike cut my dad's hair when my parents were in town once. My dad liked the barber experience with the hot towel and the shoulder massage—that’s not a thing in Mexico. My three boys have gotten their first haircut from Mike; he’s great with kids. We take advantage of the father-son discount—one dollar off each cut if father and son get haircuts.

1. Ollie's first cut. 2. Emilio. 3. Most recent haircut

Mike set up his shop a few years ago. It’s a bit of a drive to get there, but it’s worth it. He’ll have cartoons ready on the TV and the candy bowl full to the brim so the boys can have their pick after they get their haircuts.

“Mike, did you know hair is made from keratin?” Oliver asked. Mike was shocked that a seven-year-old would know this. “We homeschool,” I said. They wanted to know where Mike’s bed was in the shop. My kids thought he must live in the shop since we only see him there. I explained to them that Mike has a home like ours, and the shop is where he works.

Getting a haircut is our little ritual, a family tradition that has grown organically, allowing me to bond with the boys, which I love. I hope my boys will still want to get haircuts together as they grow up, mainly because of the dollar off. But seriously, I want them to know that how they present themselves is crucial, and a good haircut goes a long way. It’s not about vanity but dignity and respect for ourselves.

“Barbers are a sturdy shelter; whoever finds one finds a treasure.” Sirach 6:14 remixed. 

You may relate to what I have discussed if you have been going to the same barber for a while. If you haven’t, I recommend you find a barber worthy of your trust. One that makes the cut.

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Before you go

I have some questions for you.

1. How often would your parents take you to get a haircut when you were a kid?

2. Mullets are back. Yay, or Nay?

3. Do you have a relationship with your barber?

4. If you go to a different barber, is it cheating?

5. Was that last dad joke awful? It got hairy, didn’t it?

1. “Estetica” means Salon in Spanish.