Peluqueria - Super Globo - De Don Francisco

“There are loads of barbers down on San Martin," amigo Pierre tells me. “There’s a place just down on the right with loads of mirrors that looks interesting.”

Sure enough, within 100 yards of Plaza Colon there is an establishment which fits that description — Peluqueria -Super Globo- de Don Francisco — is painted on the window, and also on a sign above the shop front. There are about eight barber chairs, all state of the art — state of the art in 1920s Chicago that is, and the walls are almost entirely lined with mirrors. As it’s still quite early there’s only one guy on duty, and he’s already busy attending to an older gentleman with a head of hair that can still be cut with scissors into something called 'a style.'

I bide my time looking around the interior; the antique barber chairs in slightly differing styles and colours; the reflections in the mirrors; the green marble effect formica counter tops that are cracked and chipped and have the odd tell-tale yellow-brown stain from cigarettes that have been left to burn right down; the ‘kit’ set out on said counter tops in front of each empty chair in preparation; the inevitable girly pinups fixed up with faded brown selotape; a poster of Machu Picchu; and a few framed pencil drawings of hairstyles that were obviously once very fashionable (and most likely still are here in time warp Cochabamba).

An amount of time passes, neither long nor short, but the time that is necessary to pass. There’s only me waiting, and I’m in no hurry.

Then the old(er) guy is putting his jacket on and it’s my turn to step into the chair. As I stand up and hang my jacket on the coat stand I notice that the barber chairs all have their manufacturer’s names in raised letters in the time- and shoe-worn cast aluminium footrests. Mine reads THEO A KOCHS, CHICAGO.

I say “Buenos dias,” and hold out my hand, for I always like to shake hands with a man who is just about to bring sharp things into close proximity with my head, especially razorblades. As he ties on an apron I say, “numero dos por favor,” which is about all I need to get by in any barbers these days.

In the mirror I am confronted by a large round head, which being isolated from its body by the apron doesn’t do it any favours. Its eyes stare straight at mine. Meanwhile the barber unscrews the cap from a small chromium-plated and flask-shaped primus burner on the counter top and fills it with some kind of spirit. Having replaced the cap he gives the handle a few pumps then clicks a lighter in front of the nozzle. A small blue flame erupts into life. In front of this he passes various bits of equipment — the cutting heads, scissors, comb, the cut-throat razorblade holder etc, but I’m sure this is purely for my entertainment, and perhaps an inducement to be generous when tipping.

Cutting heads reunited with the power plant he begins to sweep the machine over my cranium. When he’s done my head looks astonishingly naked, and the eyes in the mirror do not look very impressed with what they see. 

He then wets the skin around my ears and neck and uses the razor to trim up. He trims my eyebrows with scissors, a few hairs spouting from my ears, and then takes me by surprise by sticking them in the end of my nose and trimming those guys too. 

I wonder why it is — and try to express this to my barber — that the older you become your hair doesn’t necessarily grow where you want it to, but from all the places you’d rather it didn’t. 

When he’s all done cutting, trimming and shaving he picks up the spirit lamp (un-lit) and sprays all around where he has shaved, and then for good measure, my entire head. I’ve never had this done before and for a moment I feel very light-headed — and highly inflammable. Suddenly I'm thankful there is no one in close proximity who is just about to light a cigarette. 

We go through the mirror routine, and I nod approvingly, even though I don’t like what I see, but the man has only done what I’ve asked him (except for the nose bit) so I’ve no reason to other than pleased with the job. 

Apron off and standing up (still feeling a bit light-headed from the atomized droplets of spirit), I pay and we shake hands again. I tell him my name for future reference, and he tells me his. It’s very easy to remember — it’s the same as mine but with an “o” on the end. 

I retrieve my jacket and bag, put my hat back on my freshly-trimmed and spirit-cooled head, slide on my shades, and venture forth once more into the streets of Cochabamba.