Cholo Transformation

Hey Vatos, que hases?

Last Friday I applied for a copywriter job at Disney online-- which is a long story unto itself but let's just say being burned out on the freelance world has motivated me to make a change and we're going to see if something comes of this-- but with the move I haven't had my hair cut in a while so I needed one. When I have big hair my face looks fat, I feel fat, and since I haven't worked out in two weeks I couldn't go in with that sort of self esteem so I went to get a haircut.

As a Halfrican-American, I wanted to give back to my neighborhood-run ethnic businesses. I also have a problem with paying $25 for a buzz cut in Boy's Town and knew it would be cheaper here, but it's more about helping out my peeps than anything else. For real.

Anyway, I could have gone into the salons with old Nagel prints in the windows and a gaggle of Latinas sitting around waiting for the next person, but I wanted to experience the real feeling of going to an old-school barber; besides, if I didn't like it I could scuttle on over to the ladies, but I thought I'd give it a shot.

I choose this particular barber shop on Sunset Blvd because it's run by an old guy with thinning white hair, a mustache, and he always wears a guayabera-- those short-sleeve button down shirts that have a brocaded pattern running down the front that you usually see on mariachis at Acapulco Restaurants. Or at Mexican weddings. Or both. Anyway, he was teamed with a round faced friendly looking mustached guy with a salt and pepper cut that looked kind of like my blow-dried hair from the 1980; I think they could have both been my grandfather from different sides of the family. The shop itself is just like the one my dad used to take me to-- only this one has Mexicans in it-- with black and white industrial tiles, plain white walls except for numbered photos of the available styles such as the pompadour or gang-banger, bottles of old tonic and talc, two chairs, a long mirror that you face while being trimmed, a coat rack, and Spanish language magazines tossed in a corner next to the current copy of La Opinion. I walked in, the two barbers looked up and nodded, and I sat down while a young guy and a man who looked like Saddam Hussein got their hair cut. Two more men waited ahead of me, so I grabbed a copy of the La Frontura Violenta comic with a big busted gal on the front and tried to learn some Spanish as I waited.

If you're on a learning path like myself, you should know that Fridays are not good days to go if you're in a rush. Los muchachos are looking to freshen up for their ladies and so there's always a line. Also, there is a much-understood concept called CPT-- Colored People Time. This is identical to GST-- Gay Standard Time-- in that it's usually 1/2 hour behind gringo time, but in the case of MST-- Mexican Standard Time-- it's more of an attitude than something you can set your clock by. These guys aren't rushing you out in 30 minutes like they would at a Boy's Town salon where it's all about making money, this is about the art of a haircut and an hour later was able to get in for my buzz cut. Here's how the conversation went:

ME: (insert my Latino accent that I adopt whenever speaking with another culture.) "Hola!"
BIG HAIR ABUELO:"Hi..."
ME: "¿Como estas?"
BIG HAIR ABUELO: (nodding) "How you want cut?"
ME: "Military buzz cut."
BIG HAIR ABUELO: "Short? Cholo?"

I wanted to say, "fauxolo"-- as in "Faux cholo haircut"-- but since we were communicating so well I didn't want to confuse the situation. Instead, I pointed to the side of me head and said with my ever-present ethnic accent, "Uno," then at the top and said, "Dos!" For those of you unfamiliar with hair terminology (I try to have a breadth of knowledge on multiple topics because it makes one more versatile at parties), that meant I wanted a very short "1" guard to clip the side of my head and a slightly longer "2" guard for the top.

BIG HAIR ABUELO: "One and two? Okay..."

First a buzz, buzz, and all my hair was off, a distinct line between the two layers. Then he said, "I blend..."Andd 45 minutes later he had made the most perfectly sculpted head of hear I'd ever experienced. I marveled at my head as a whirring noise filed the background, and suddenly warm cream was applied to my neck, and with a flick, flick, flick he took a straight razor and shaved my neck, around my ears and sideburns. Some alcohol-based after shave that I'm sure will never be listed in one of my article for CARGO Magazine was applied to the area and I was finished. "$8," Big Hair Abuelo said, and I gave him a $10, gesturing for him to keep the change.

Yes, it was cheaper than any cut I've ever experienced, and it was probably one of the mostcarefullyy executed fades, and yes, I do look more like a cholo but I figure it's just another side of exploring my Latino heritage. But probably the greatest moment, even though no one spoke to me the entire time, was feeling like I was one of the guys. This was totally where my dad would have felt at home, and though he's been gone for over 15 years now I felt just a little closer to him because I got a cut and shave just like I used to watch him get so many years ago. It's hard to tag down the exact emotions surrounding this moment, but I guess I felt like with this haircut I'd kind of stepped one closer toward fitting into my new home.