Not too short.

Got a haircut yesterday. From my favorite barber. Funny thing. We converse. Without conversing in so many words. Because he speaks Italian. I speak English. But still, we manage. I sense we like each other. I know the essential Italian words. For when I’m in the shop. Not too short. And he always does it just right. Asks me in English, when it’s done, ‘Good?’ And I reply with the Italian for good. And we exchange a few more  rudimentary words. That I practice before going to the barber. And I always observe. The pictures on the wall. Photographs of soccer teams. Local, I presume. Next time I go for a haircut, I’d love to bring a translator. My Italian true love. But she’s hesitant. Thinking a barbershop is strictly a man’s domain. Not a  unisex place. But hey, down the road a smidgen, there’s a unisex hair salon. Maybe that’s why it’s called a salon instead of barbershop. My barber has the traditional red and white barber’s pole outside his shop. He’s an older fella. Maybe near retirement age. Being a barber in Italy, ain’t a bad occupation. It’s steady work. My barber charges 10 euros  for a haircut. My guess is that even on a slow day, he does at least 10 haircuts. That’s a take of 100 euros. Or about $130 in U.S. currency. Enough to live on. Comfortably, I guess. That’s my second haircut since arriving in November. I’ll go again. In late March. Before returning to Minnesota. Where I go to a unisex hair salon. A woman barber. I’ll try to impress her. With my knowledge. Of the Italian ways. And I’ll tell her. In Italian. Not too short. –Jim Broede