Today is a beautiful sunny day in Madrid. It’s one of those days that so forceful that one forgets that there’s a season like winter. This would be a great day to go to the barber shop, I thought.
I walked into the first barber shop that I saw in the neighborhood of Salamanca, located pretty close to downtown Madrid. As I walked in an old man greeted me. He acted like the barber but I found out 10 minutes later that it was his daughter that was the one that was going to cut my hair.
“She’ll be right with you, señor,” the old barber said. “I can’t cut your hair because I’m retired. I’d get into a lot of trouble if an inspector caught me.”
The decor and feel inside the barber shop was almost like from the 1960s. All it needed was a portrait of former dictator Francisco Franco on the wall.
“How do you want your hair cut,” the woman barber says.
She started to do away with my hair with an electric razor in the same way as a harvester cuts wheat. I started to get worried.
As if we’d known each other for years, she started telling me about her intestinal problems and how she had to eat a restricted diet comprising of high-fiber vegetables and fruits.
After that she started to ramble on about how good the Republican Party was in the US and that Condi should run for president. The lady sounded like a neocon but a Spanish version of it, which is just as bad.
She didn’t have nice words for Spain’s socialist prime minister José Luis Rodríguez Zapatero. “Es un hijo de puta (he’s a son of a bitch),” she said.
I was pretty happy that she was almost through cutting my hair, or should I say scalping it.
It’s the last time I’ll ever go to that barber!