Corte de Pelo

I really needed a haircut and I was getting a rash from my facial hair. Originally I thought this would be a useful cultural experience. I walked up the road and located a hairdresser (un peluquero) and was shocked to discover that it was only going to cost me six Bolivianos for a cut. I was at the right place.

Given my limited Spanish I resorted to pointing at the array of hairstyles displayed on the wall. The best I could find was a picture of a dude that looked like Brian Littrell from the Backstreet Boys. I pointed “esto” and hoped for the best (secretly hoping for the worst). She whipped out her scissors which were designed for fabric cutting and got to work. Each chop it sounded like newsprint being torn, against-the-grain, in half. This was definitely going to plan.

Five to ten minutes later and she was finished. I paid my six Bolivianos (half expecting the price to have increased), waved goodbye to senora and smiled at the mammarifous Cochabambina unabashedly breastfeeding in the doorway and headed home. All I can say was this whole experience was entirely harmless. There was no egregiously bad haircut, ripping off the gringo, 30 minute wait next to a sweaty truck driver or blood. Just a quick, cheap, innocuous, better-than-mediocre (for the price) haircut that only disappointed insofar as it did not make me look like Who’s the Boss era Tony Danza. Wadaimiss?