Wednesday, May 23, 2007

A voluntary buzzcut.

I have never been known for my love for barbershops, even from my early formative years. On a good day to get me to have a haircut my parents or grandparents had to bribe me, because un pelado a la malanguita was something that I found low and undignifying!

There was one day when I had a voluntary buzzcut. And I know you want to know about that....
It was during the First Gulf War, which was widely televised in Cuba, making the American military wildy admired.
As I said in a comment to a post by KillCastro on KillCastro, there was a time where we hung out with an uniform crafted together this way, black T-shirt, American military desert camouflage pants, and whichever pair of mean looking combat boots.
To make the long story short, the American military was kicking Moorish ass in Iraq, and a group of friends decided that the fashion statement of the day should be the most outrageous thing, cut the long rock and roll manes, and sport a marine-like buzzcut.

So, cuatro peluos went to the barbershop they built on the parking lot of el minimax del Monaco, and we sat there, among a lot of old men with grandkids. They, of course, were watching -without daring to cheer- the American telenovela, the war of liberation of Kuwait. We asked if they could cut our hair and sat there silently.

When the turn of the first of us came, the barber asked: what do you want me to cut? What do you want to have done in this cabeza piojosa? I said "cut his hair like the American Marines, we all are here to get the cut!". Well, the barbershop became a freaking madhouse. All the old men started to smile, their brightless eyes lit, and they started to cheer whenever the Americans appeared on TV! The barber said: cuando la gente los vea con ese pelao y esos pantalones van a creer que llegaron los americanos!

Then one old guy said, que vengan los americanos coño!
The cuts were done, our locks were on the floor, and we went outside walking slowly, believe me you, we felt like the Americanos had come. We felt like liberators that day, and we had a lot of pairs of eyes looking at us, from little kids to old ladies, people from buses, and of course, the fucking Palestinian police from our neighborhood who could not harass us for long hair, and who didn't have a reason to get us even if they knew what the haircuts represented.

And this is my only happy barbershop story!