Vincenzo's Place

We were headed toward the Spanish Steps in search of espresso before heading to the Coliseum. It was hot and muggy in Rome in the summer of 2004, and my long, out of control hair wasn’t helping the situation any. I didn’t even see the shop, but my wife Vicki, ever the eagle eye, spotted the traditional red and white pole and suggested I get a haircut.

The idea appealed to me, but I was a little nervous, since I didn’t know what to expect. I peaked in the door, and the shop was empty but for the barber, a distinguished man with white mustache and hair, and a female, who seemed to be his assistant and manicurist. I walked in and was greatly warmly

Vincenzo sat me down, after I told him and the assistant that I wanted the cut, media. He smiled and began working. My retired stateside barber, Al Latham, use to say he could tell a man’s skill within a few seconds. “It’s all in the hands, Dave, it’s all in the hands,” were his exact words.

With Al’s criteria in mind I noticed that Vincenzo worked like a skilled surgeon. Standing erect with a dignified posture, Vincenzo moved swiftly, cutting and shaping overgrown, neglected hair. His focus was sharp, and he didn’t attempt to talk about sports like the barbers of my childhood. The fact that he didn’t speak English was partly responsible for his silence, but I don’t know how much he would have talked, had I spoken Italian.

After cutting a significant amount of hair, Vincenzo moved me to the sink for a wash. This was a reverse process from that in America, but by now I realized I was in the hands of a master craftsman, and I had no worry. Following the wash he sprinkled my head with a refreshing lotion of some kind and then dried my hair. At one point he put a net over my head for shaping purposes. He never used clippers like American barbers, but rather he pulled out a straight razor, sharpened it, and trimmed here and there. When he finished using the razor, like an operating room physician, he held out the razor which was snatched up with precision by his assistant. The whole thing was like watching Bob Cousy do his magic with the Celtics back in the 50s.

All too soon the cut was over, and Vincenzo made out a bill with an itemization of charges. He broke the cut down into categories and charged by procedure, just like a hospital. Since his shop was located in a tourist area in an expensive part of Rome, I knew his fee would be high. Though it was more than I typically paid in the States, it wasn’t too bad, and the showmanship of it all made the price more than worth it. Before I left he shook my hand with both of his, smiled warmly, and wished me well. His assistant walked me to the door. We said “Ciao” to both the professionals and continued on our search for strong Italian coffee.