TIME FOR A HAIRCUT!

Theoretically-speaking, there are two kinds of barbers in Spain—those that talk a lot, and those that don’t. The reason that I say “theoretically” is because there are, in fact, no barbers in Spain that fall into the latter category.

But it gets more complicated still. Within the former category, there are two subgroups—those barbers that actually cut hair while talking, and those that don’t.

Sonia—who is my barber—don’t.

I go to Sonia for a hairtalk—I mean, a haircut—every four to six weeks, and each lasts at least thirty minutes. Now, this may not seem like an excessive amount of time for a haircut—until you realize that I only have about four hairs on my head.

Mind you, I certainly wouldn’t mind a little chit-chat in the barber’s chair—and in fact, it would be most beneficial for my abysmal language skills—if each sentence were punctuated by the sound of snip, snip, snip. But alas, punctuation isn’t her strong suit. And no matter how fidgety, dour or fatalistic I try to appear, it makes no difference. If Sal won’t talk to Sonia, then the lady on the left will. And the lady on the right. And the lady who just walked in the door. And the lady who has just called on the telephone. And the lady who has not just called on the telephone, because Sonia took the initiative to call her first.

I had my hair cut this morning, and arrived at Sonia’s ready for research. Tucked stealthily under my shirt were a pad, pencil and calculator—and yes, that *was* a slide-rule in my pants. I took diligent notes and, having just finished analyzing the data, hereby report that this morning’s haircut yielded one snip of the scissors for every 27 verbs, 14 predicates and 6.7 reflexive pronouns. If that’s not statistically significant, then I don’t know what is.

My wife says that I’m being an ass, and that I shouldn’t let any of this bother me. It is, after all, a “cultural thing.” We Americans put a high value on time, and are loathe to waste it. In this respect, we are like the Germans—except with much better taste in eyeglasses. But the Spanish, true to the stereotype, are a mañana, mañana, mañana culture—and no amount of pleading on behalf of an asymmetrical set of sideburns is likely to change that.

But after spending far too much time thinking about this (and on a vacation day, no less!), I’ve concluded that—perhaps for the first time ever—my wife may be wrong. Perhaps the reason behind the endless Spanish haircut is not a cultural one, but rather a business one. And a brilliant business one, at that!

Just think about it. By the time Sonia finishes my haircut, I’m in need of another.