My Tryst with a Non-English speaking Hispanic Barber

The haircut I get from the franchise stores in US have been unsatisfactory and never made the cut(get it, hair'cut' did not make the 'cut') to the standards set by the barber from my hometown. The hair is either cut too short, too long, not uniform, not blended leaving steps between the sides and the top or a combination of all. One of the things that I miss from my childhood is a good haircut and you can find here how my last visit home to my barber turned out to be a humbling experience .

A month or so after my vacation from India, I visited my brother in Philly. He moved a little South of the South Philly region after a incident at this old apartment which I chronicled here. In my instinctive manner, I decided to explore the area and the neighborhood to find a decent(read cheap) haircut. Philly is a city of neighborhoods. But if you have lived in the city for enough time, you will know that the hoods and neighborhoods are not well demarcated. You can quickly find yourself in a hood by walking a block in the wrong direction. So it is truly a city of Hoods within Neighborhoods. He lives a block away from the world famous Geno's Philly cheese steaks. The owner of the Geno's steaks was the one who brought Philly to the national news headlines in 2006, by starting a English only ordering policy. South Philly has long been a place where immigrants settled down. Once a Italian American majority neighborhood is fast turning out to be a Latin and Asian immigrant neighborhood as it offers 'reasonably priced rowhouses'. We can see the xenophobia caused by this immigrant influx to this neighborhood. If you go a block or two North of Gino's steakhouse you will find most business are owned by Hispanic and Asians.

Since I have made up my mind of having a haircut, I started walking north of Geno's. A block away I found a barbershop. I walked in and was surprised to see Hombre - $10 on a makeshift cardboard price chart. My beginners Spanish class, I took in 2004 when I was living in Pittsburgh, came in handy. I remembered Hombre meant man/men and the price was only $10. I deemed the business safe after a quick visual scan. The cheap price tag might have deceived my survival instincts as I have not had a haircut that cheap in a longtime. The last time I had a haircut for $10 was in Dallas way back in 2004-2005 at a salon also run by a Hispanic. My recent haircut cost me almost $20 on my visit to India. I decided to give my head to the barber who looked like a Mexican warlord, we shall call him Jose from now, in some spaghetti western movies ff the sixties. I was clearly on a high - the one you get on finding bargains while shopping at a mall where you end up buying lot more than you need and paying as much or more than you had set out to when looking for the items you need.

There were two barbers inside, a male and female. They were busy giving a haircut to other customers who were clearly Hispanic looking. I sat at the waiting chairs with my brother for my turn. Then come two other Hispanic looking men, talking something is Spanish to the guy and leave few minutes later. I could make nothing of their conversation. I patiently waited my turn. When the previous customer left, I asked the male barber how much the haircut was to confirm my knowledge from the price board. He sternly replied 'No Habla Ingles' and goes inside without saying anything more. I was clearly surprised and disturbed by this. I was lost like the Jilebee kid below.


I felt helpless, but did not want to let go of the bargain I found. I waited for him to comeback out again. Our male barber Jose comes out in about five minutes after cleaning some brushes and combs inside. I showed some signs with my hands, something that shows scissors across the hair to tell him I need a haircut. This was followed by a thumbs up sign asking how much the haircut was. I then said diez with all my ten fingers up asking if the price was 10. Saying si, Jose walks past me to the wall behind me. There he showed me a board with images of heads of men displaying different hairstyles. I felt like a customer at some chinese restaurants where you have to order by numbers like D3 for hot and sour soup and F5 for General Tso's chicken. I consulted with my brother for sometime and we narrowed down to two heads. I eventually chose one which my brother did not agree on, but I went with it anyway. I showed him the head and gestured that is what I want. He motioned to me as if to say 'Are you ready for this?' and I walked behind him feeling like a proverbial turkey.

Jose got me seated on the chair and prepared me for the cut. I said what I usually say - 'Number 3 on the sides and back, Scissors on the top and blend' for my haircut. He understood none of what I said and had a smirk as if to say 'You showed the picture and that is enough. I know what I am doing'. But I had my reservations. He used the clippers and spent almost 15 mins on just trimming the sides and back. 15 minutes is what most barbers spent on an entire haircut including the billing process. I was very impressed. He changed the clippers about six times. I felt special like my old barber used to make me feel. I had found my mango like the kid below.


My relaxed state of mind was short lived. Jose applied some white powder and began to brush off the loose hair off of my head. At this point I had a military crew cut except that my hair on the top is lot longer. I was thinking, where else can I go now to get my hair fixed. The hair on the top of my head was not trimmed at all and not blended. I looked like a punk guitarist in some crazy rock band. I cannot go to work the next day like that. So I decided to protest. I turned 90 degrees and said 'Not done. Blend with scissors on top'. My Mexican villain Jose was not willing to listen and continued brushing my face. Since I had turned 90 degrees, he brushed right through my eyes and muttered something angrily which I could not comprehend. But from the tone of it, I thought I better be quite and let him complete. If I survive, I can go somewhere tomorrow to have my hair fixed or go with a cap or something to work. Have resigned to this thought, I turned front towards the mirror to let him complete his job while rubbing my left eye that had a brush with, well a real brush.

Jose opened a new blade but a very old style stainless steel blade - one which my Dad used to shave when I was a kid. He started trimming the hair line and side burns. Seeing the stainless steel blade made me nostalgic. I quickly recollected my first shave-a very awful one when I think about it - it was with a similar blade. I think it was a 7 O’Clock Super Platinum or a Swish. A collection of images of all old Indian razor blade covers can be found here. Jose threw the blade in a dustbin and I was sure that he was done now.

To my surprise he wasn't done. He took a pair of scissors out. I breathed a sigh of relief and thanked God for saving me from a back to back humiliation in the hands of barbers. I felt like the deers running with P.T.Usha; Free from anxiety of the impending humiliation.


He rolled his index and middle fingers between my hair above the forehead gesturing if that was short enough. My 'Si' came with euphoric air that could have gone hardly unnoticed. He continued with trimming my hair, switching multiple scissors to make sure the hair blended properly. I believe he had used three scissors in all. What impressed me more than the number of scissors was the flair with which he used the scissors. I was convinced he was a master of his trade. The sweet schick schick sound that the scissors made while he was trimming the hair was music to my ears. I had longed years to hear that music. I was in dream land singing the song of Mile Sur Mera Tumara


to the tune of Baje Sargam


Jose spent about 45 minutes on my hair. This was the most anyone including myself had committed to it. I gave Jose the $10 and tipped him very generously. My brother agreed with me on the mastery of Jose's skills in his trade. I has been some time and I am longing for some more of his music. Guess I am going there soon.

P.S.: Here are some pictures of people from old Doordarshan times. I recognize some faces like Minu, but other are too old for me as well.