Italian Barbershop

I have been away for a month and it had been a month or two before my departure that I visited the lovely Sam for a haircut. It was long overdue so I decided Rome would be as good a place as any to get a trim. Little did I know I was about to spend the next 30 minutes fighting back laughter at the Italian cliché/stereotype I was about to encounter. I checked into the hostel and crossed the street to a small barbershop to enquire if he had time to give me a haircut. The barber was a chubby old Italian man that didn’t speak any English at all. He signaled to me to have a seat and I assumed that meant I would be next. He was currently working on another chubby old Italian that really didn’t need much of a haircut due to a lack of hair. Not long after my arrival it appeared the man in the chair was done his trim but then the barber went to the back and came out with a bowl of goo. He began to lather the goo onto the few strands of hair the man had left. Some Just for Men to darken up the few gray hairs that remained. The two men conversed intensely with the barber pausing on a regular basis to make grand hand gestures including the most stereotypical Italian gesture of them all: the back handed wave of the four fingers clenched with the thumb. Once the goo fully covered the man’s head he stepped out of the chair and it was my turn. My only hope was to point at a hairstyle in a magazine and then hope for the best. The former client was sitting behind me where I could see his facial expressions in the mirror. The barber nodded at my hairstyle choice and then continued his conversation with the man behind me. I felt bad for my shadow as he had a look of pure envy on his face as the barber worked on my full head of hair. I hope I’m never the man at the back. So far so good! The conversation took place as if I wasn’t even there, which I didn’t mind as I didn’t have anything in Italian to add to their discussion. I thought my haircut was over as the barber stopped cutting, but I was only just beginning! The barber brushed some powder onto the places he had just razored and then signaled me to lean towards the sink. A standard shampoo and condition, but then came a third substance that smelled good, but as to its identity I couldn’t guess. Once the wash and mystery application was completed he sat me up again, dried my hair and face and then did some more trimming. Once he was satisfied with the trim he dumped a bunch of yellow liquid on my head that made my scalp tingle. He then proceeded to put more gel in my hair than I’ve used in the past decade. My new greasy Italian locks were now styled and ready to take on Rome. Thanks Luigi, or whatever your perfectly Italian name may be.