I had been traveling in Colombia for five weeks when I realized the same number of words had emerged as themes to describe my travel experience thus far. The first is patience. I’m operating on Colombian time, and the sense of urgency or punctuality that I might expect from home has been replaced with tranquilo, whether I will it or not. Además (in addition), everything takes longer than I plan, whether navigating a neighborhood, buying groceries, reading a menu, or - por supuesto - speaking Spanish!
Sometimes, patience is a self-imposed lesson to be learned. Case in point, I spent an entire morning looking for a place to get a haircut. That’s not to say there aren’t options. Colombianos take their hair very seriously, so there seems to be a barber or salon on every other corner - just not the ones I had in mind. A guy told me once that my hair was so straight you could set your watch to it. He never saw my perm from the 80s. Since then, I’ve opted for the cheapest cut I can find because I know I’ll be in the chair for all of 12 minutes and pay the same price as the guy who takes an hour. Barbers love customers like me. At least, that’s how it is back home.
My first day in the city of Bucaramanga, the capital of Santander Department, I spotted two barbershops with sandwich board signs that read $15,000 pesos. That’s about $4. I was elated! I then made the tactical error of relying on my memory which, after three days, failed the test of recall. A simple Google search displayed dozens of salons within a 1-mile radius from my Airbnb, but I discovered the cheap places - my places - weren’t listed. I wandered aimlessly through the streets passing one stylist after another. They were clearly out of my league. I loitered outside several others that appeared closer to my standard. They were busy tending to locals, and I felt self-conscious about entering to ask how much. I wondered how long I’d have to sit and wait. I wondered if I’d quash the vibe. I wondered whether I’d be stared at or ignored. So I kept walking. At one point, I entertained the idea of just letting my hair grow out, but I knew I’d be in this hot, humid climate for at least another month. I could practically wring my hair out like a mop, and I couldn’t get images of Fabio out of my mind. The search continued.
My phone battery was nearly drained as I checked the map for the umpteenth time, but this time I found a one-man shop with great reviews. I’ll bet he’s cheap, I thought! I was led to an intersection and ping-ponged my way from corner to corner looking for the address. I took a closer look at my phone, and the words, “HOUSECALLS ONLY” leapt from the screen in all caps.
I had been walking for 2 ½ hours. I questioned my frugality, but not my stubbornness. The Airbnb was over a mile away, so I circled back and resolved to choose a barber - most any barber - on my return. With yet another glance at my phone, I headed in the direction of the nearest shop. Upon arrival, I cased the joint while trying to look inconspicuous - hard to do when you’re the only white guy around. The entry consisted of three glass panels, but I couldn’t find the actual door. I started to move on when a young woman inside caught my eye. She smiled, headed in the direction of one of the panels, and unlocked the secret passage. “You speak English?” she asked. “Cuanto cuesta por cortar?” I replied. “Veinte… No! Treinte,” she said. Already, I thought I was being taken for the gringo I am as the price went from $20,000 to $30,000 in the twinkle of her eye. It was as if she knew I was beaten down and just needed a place to sit and cool off. I stepped inside.
The woman had an unintelligible exchange with a young man who looked up at me, put down the book he’d been reading, and offered me his chair. He asked in English what I wanted, and with a mix of English and Spanish, we came to an understanding. He began spritzing my hair with water, carefully combing through it. We talked about the typical things between strangers from two countries - birthplace, family, travel. At one point in the conversation he asked how old I thought he was. Thirty? He laughed, though he wasn’t surprised. I’m 22. It wouldn’t be the first time my guess would grossly miss the mark. I watched in the mirror and noticed he’d chosen to part my hair quite low. I asked for the comb and showed him where I usually part it. “No,” he said, elaborating in words I didn’t understand. His confidence belied his age. I acquiesced.
He held up a portion of my hair between two fingers and looked in the mirror for approval before taking the first snip. “Más corto,” I said. The conversation vacillated between English and Spanish in a broken yet congenial manner. The chair next to mine was so close that my barber had to sachet between the two each time he grabbed something from the counter. The young man sitting next to me had been in the chair since before my arrival, and his partially sculpted hair told me he was an hour-long customer. At one point, I glanced in his direction to see two cloth patches stuck to the side of his head like velcro. His barber gingerly worked around them. I hadn’t a clue what they were for.
My barber took care of the top before switching to the electric clippers for the sides and back of my head. It morphed into a kind of dance, back and forth from scissors to clippers, until he was satisfied. Then he surprised me by picking up a straight edge. He deftly trimmed an arc over my ears, then worked on the back of my neck. Each stroke of the blade was intentional and true. I appreciated his focus and the time he took which was far more than I’m accustomed to. He asked if I wanted to wash my hair, gesturing with his hands over his head when he realized I wasn’t sure of the question. No, gracias. He opened a jar of gel and showed it to me. This time, his raised eyebrows asked the question. No, gracias. He smiled, put the lid back on, and picked up the electric hand massager. He didn’t wait for an answer. “This is relaxing,” he said. As he traversed my neck, shoulders, and scalp, I exhaled and felt the tension release.
Glenn, I think you have a gift for writing interesting and very enjoyable stories. I encourage you to submit several to travel magazines for additional income. They are so relatable and have good info for anyone wanting to strike out on their own but even if that's not the intent, they're fun to read. Think about it.
With the internet it's so much easier than ever before.
If you put these on Facebook you could certainly hit a larger audience but why do that if you can sell them? Just sayin'.
😁👏🏼 thank god I wasn’t walking with you, because MY patience would have evaporated, like the sweat on your brow, after the first 30 minutes! And- I’m sure you were totally inconspicuous!
Nice ‘do’, Doooood!
Rock on, dear little brother 🫶🏻