Haircuts

Typically I am rushing around before a vacation trying to finish up work tasks. I often don’t have time to get a haircut. Such inefficiency has resulted in an unexpected bonus. Over the years I have drifted into the habit of getting haircuts in foreign countries and other American states. Initially I wondered how it would all work out, but not only did I get good haircuts, but my interactions with my haircutters became interesting, cultural experiences.

In Rome Peter performed like a surgeon welding his scissors with precision and flair. His assistant was wordless, as she handed him the tools of his trade. In the Southern part of Italy my unnamed haircutter never used scissors, only clippers. She couldn’t speak English, but we communicated well through hand gestures. In New Zealand my Irish cutter told me about herself and her plans while expertly practicing her craft.

I have a favorite barber in Colorado where I ski, and I enjoyed the man who cut my hair in Hamilton, Mass. His accent brought me back to my roots, and his charge was half that what I pay in San Diego. I don’t know, if we talked about the Red Sox, but we could have.

Travel is a funny activity. The spectacular and known are fun and stimulating, but I have often found that it is the “off moments” that bring the most meaning on my trips. The tears our porter shed when we said goodbye in Nepal, the girl scampering up the climbing wall in Cortina d’ Ampezzo, the waiter in Taormina expressing his sadness the day of 9/11, and the rambunctious Canadians flying around the Matterhorn on their Rossignols. These were experiences I have never forgotten. I remember Peter, the woman in Puglia, whose name I never knew, and  the Irish woman in Queenstown. They have become part of the landscape of my own life.