Haircuts
There is one thing that I love in this world and that is haircuts. It’s the one universal thing that ties everyone together. Wherever I go, I always try to stop and get a local haircut. Currently in Roatan, I had to venture down a few back alleys amidst flooded streets and stray dogs to find my peluqueria. Once I entered, I got a lot of weird looks, but I knew that this was the place to be. It was a nothing of a place, cement walls and floors stained by water and mud from the day’s rainfall. Three men were in the place as I arrived. One, the closest to the entrance, was a young man who sat in an empty barber chair with faded crocs and a sports outfit. The other two were barber and patient, getting close to being finished.
The barber was a young 30-something man in cargo shorts and a purple championship T-shirt from who knows what sporting event. The man in the chair was a bit more dapper and looking to get cleaned up for the weekend. I sat and waited while the streets around me were filled with chaos as the locals cleaned up the debris from the earlier rains.
I walked outside because the wait was going to be another half hour, Immediately I was approached by a street hustler named Tito. Tito had the best cocaine on the island and wanted to sell me some of the “Bob Marley” as he called it. I politely declined and asked him where to get a beer. He took me into a small shop that had fruit sitting out front and a fridge of beer in the back. I grabbed my beer, a few rambutan and walked back into the barber shop, waiting to get my haircut.
The haircut went as smoothly as any one I have ever had before. Looking in the mirror, I noticed how I have gotten older than I wanted, but walked out of the place looking like a million bucks. Or, in Tito’s words, “a movie star in the barrio.”
I walked down the rain-soaked streets, the asphalt eroded by the persistent rain, and felt my stomach grumble. I tried a few places, but they were closed. Instead, I decided to follow my nose and finally settled into a place where I could smell fresh poached chicken cooking on a hot stove.
I was met with smug looks and frowns as I came into the restaurant and asked for a plate. A man outside who spoke English captured the moment perfectly: “A hungry man is a hungry man.” He walked away soon thereafter, leaving me with the three teenage girls running the grill.
A few minutes later and I was welcomed with a plate of poached chicken, rice, beans and tomatoes and a mysterious meat that had been slow-cooked in a flavorful sauce. I’m pretty sure that this mystery meat was dog, but I ate it happily as my stomach was empty from the day’s events.
I walked out of the restaurant, belly full of chicken and dog, and back to the hostel. Like so many haircuts I have gotten before, this one will remain in my memory forever.