Shave and a Haircut

BARBER OF DE VILLE

 

Barcelona is wild, music comes out of every open window. Tortoise shell combs decorate the senoritas' hairdos. Carriages carrying fine ladies and gentlemen roll nosily to the bull fights. It is Saturday. Peasants, carrying stiff brushes behind their carts, clean the cobblestone streets  non-stop. They complain their jobs are endless, pay is almost non-extinct. Nobody of importance hears them.

 

Don Dorado, in hopes of finding work, has walked many miles to Barcelona. His feet are blistered. His facial hair is scraggly. He is ashamed but has little choice, holds a tin cup out to passers by, and collects a few coins, barely enough for a cup of soup. He sits thru the night on a hard bench, gets little rest. The morning sun, the horses clomping by, wake him. Already his stomach growls. He spots a bodega along the street, opens the door, bows his head in reverence and asks for work. 'Clean the toilets, all of them and you may have breakfast here.' Senor Don scrubs and rubs the toilet rooms until they look as good as new and is treated royally to a full breakfast and a small bag of cheese and rolls to take on his journey.

 

Journey? Journey to where? he thinks. The day warms. It only takes that one long night to let him realize he could never be happy in so big a city. In a small city, a much smaller town, he can make friends, be somebody and so he plods the long road, watching for signs of friendship, possible growth. Often the Madonna visits him, urges him forward. The first town he comes to, La Compana, is not little. They already have a bullfight ring, a museum. Smaller, smaller he thinks. I want to become somebody, not rush myself to my final resting place.

 

Several  men are leaning against an old fashioned lamppost. They smell of cigars, cheap cigars. 'Signors, Donde esta' barbero tienda? Bano casa?' Each man shrugs and points in another direction. 'E quiero empleo, trabajar.' The biggest, sloppiest man speaks in broken English, 'You want a barber and a job? Well, tourists come here from America and you had better learn to speak some English.The worn out walker senses what is being said and nods his head yes. The big man points East tells him in Spanish ' rel manero.' With a sweeping polite bow, the traveler says 'Gracias' and moves towards the painted white hand on a tree limb that says Ahedo. From there he walks some more. Joy jumps from his eyes and heart as he comes to a small village with a red and white barber pole. The stripes turn.

 

Inside are four  barber chairs, only one is empty and calls his name. The barber's big moustache twirls at its ends as he invites the stranger to take the empty seat. From a back room two more mustachiode barbers appear with steaming towels for their customers. Looking around Don Dorado sees potential, space in the rear of the shop. The boss man removes too long neglected facial hair with calmness, tenderness, wraps the face in a steaming towel. The waiting chairs are again filled. Customers stick their heads in, glance at their watches and wait outside to be called. Excitement grows in Dorado's mind. As he steps from the chair and pays from his beggar's pants, he asks the boss man for a job. His voice almost pleads. The barbero explains he needs no help. What he needs is more chairs.
'Let me see what is in the back room,' The barber removes the sheet around Dorado's neck and leads him to a large almost empty room that has glass windows, a wooden floor and one lone electric light with a long string hanging from the ceiling. Impolite as it may be, he asks the barber if he is rich. 'Yes and no,' is the reply. 'I have a nice home, many children and a fat wife who is a good cook. So I am rich. But I m tired of cutting and shaving and unimportant talking, so I am poor.'

 

That is just what Dorado is hoping for. 'Senor Barber,' 'I look like a ragged poor nobody to you but back in Castille where my family lives, they have gold to invest in what I want to do. My padre told me when I know for sure what I want, to write to him. To be a barber, the best, most sought after barber in all of Spain, that is my desire. Let me tell you what I already see in my mind for myself, and you if you wish to be my partner.'  When evening comes and the shop is closed, plans form.

 

'The shop as it is now will become a relaxing area, with soft chairs, mirrors, a small bar with fine Spanish wines, Sangria. There will be excellent books for customers to read while they wait their turn. We will take out the wooden floors and have fine Spanish tiles, each colorful and bright, laid down. I envision perhaps ten chairs that revolve and can be pumped up and down and drop back for comfort. Steam, soft brushes for powders, perfumes–elegance that is what I want for my future. '

 

'And you, Senor, will have to be second in command of our hermoso investment. I shall be the best barber. I will be the leader, the gold giver. Shall we talk further?' The barber does not seem sure and asks for time to think everything over, ask questions. 'What do we do while the new place is being built? Where will you live? When would we get the gold? ' 'How do I know you are a great barber?' Dorado has a quick reply. 'Because I have told you I am. And if you don't believe that, we cannot be partners.'

 

'Then I am afraid Senor Dorado, I do not believe the wonders you offer me are real. I believe that you may be a barber but not as good as I am, so I guess we cannot be partners. But you are welcome to have dinner with my family and stay the night in bed with my daughter. What do you say?'

 

An answer takes a long time. 'I will accept your hospitality and be gone in the morning when the sun rises. I will walk to Jaquada and find another partner. Shall we go to dinner now?'