A Bald Guy Walks Into a Barbershop…

Life lessons from old-world values

The barbershop could be best described as humble. Located near the center of the Old Town in Lagos, Portugal. The small space housed two workstations opposite a couple of chairs arranged to accommodate waiting customers.

The decor consisted of a few shelves displaying hair care products and a grouping of framed black and white photographs of barbers at work. The images had an avant-garde look to them. Whoever took the photos had considerable creativity and skill.

I opened the door to the shop and the lone barber acknowledged me. He flashed me a hippie peace sign indicating that there were two people waiting ahead of me. He then continued cutting the silver hair of the customer sitting at his chair.

I stepped back outside and sat on the edge of a marble planter facing the shop. The winter sun warmed my shoulders. As I waited, I photographed the scene around me. I am not a regular barbershop patron. Firstly, my hairstyle resembles that of George Costanza from Seinfeld, in a grayer, shorter version. Secondly, my loving partner kindly buzzes away my few remaining hairs using an electric trimmer — in our own home. Not a lot of “styling” is required. The only times I visit a barber is when I am traveling.

When my turn arrived, Francisco motioned me onto the barber chair. He placed a black barber’s cape around me and asked “Zero?” “Double zero” I replied, indicating my desire for the closest possible cut without using a straight razor.

Francisco was not in a rush. He worked methodically and carefully. First with a large and powerful trimmer then with a smaller and more accurate tool, ensuring no hair was left behind.

He then focused on my goatee. “One, two?” he asked. “Two” I responded. He proceeded to trim and shape my facial hair with the care and precision of a surgeon.

Just when I was beginning to think that the experience was over Francisco loaded a fresh single disposable blade onto its holder. He proceeded to shave the contours of my haircut and goatee to ensure a clear delineation between the areas that had hair, and those that didn’t. He finished the job by trimming stray hairs from my neck, eyebrows, nose, and ears.

That was by far the best haircut I’ve ever had.

Over the next three months, I returned to see Francisco every 2 or 3 weeks to enjoy the fruit of his labor. Our conversations began to shape the foundation of a friendship. He was curious about Canada and what had attracted me to Lagos. I was curious about his life as a barber.

Francisco has functional English with a limited vocabulary, when he defers to Portuguese I have to rely on my knowledge of Spanish to try to connect the dots. We managed to make each other understood.

Francisco is a soft-spoken family man, proud of his profession and his culture. His dedication and work ethic is reflected in every move he makes. I found him easy to like.

During my second winter in Portugal, I returned to Barbearia Fonseca to visit Francisco. He remembered me, and seemed pleased to see me. He was quite surprised that I had chosen to return to Lagos. I told him I had to come back to get a real haircut. He chuckled and led me to the barber’s chair.

During the next three months, our relationship matured.

As I was preparing for my third winter in Lagos I printed an 8x10 copy of the photo that illustrates this story — with the intention to frame it and gift it to Francisco. Upon arrival, I purchased a frame and headed to the Barbearia only to find the storefront empty.

I was shocked. What happened to Francisco?

Well, a few days later while strolling through a narrow street in the Old Town I ran into a barbershop that I did not recognize, and there was Francisco, at a new location. He stepped away from his customer to give me a warm greeting.

The new space was located closer to the center of the Old Town which provided easier access and more foot traffic. The shop was smaller than the former one, but large wall-to-wall mirrors gave the illusion of more space.

The collection of framed black and white photos had been expanded to include images of celebrities with iconic hairstyles, Elvis Presley amongst them.

After my haircut, I presented Francisco with the framed photo I had brought for him. He was very appreciative and thanked me profusely. “You are always taking photos,” he said, “I see you around town with your camera.”

In my fourth winter in Lagos, I returned to see Francisco and I noticed that the photo I had given him had not been hung on the shop wall, as I presumed it would have. I was disappointed, but I did not inquire.

The explanation would come some months later as I was about to return to Canada. In a private moment, while alone in the shop, Francisco disclosed to me that the barbershop did not belong to him, he was only an employee. I found that surprising as I always assumed that he was the owner of the business.

So… that explained why the photo had never been added to the collection. He also quietly told me that he was thinking of leaving the establishment to open a barbershop of his own. I encouraged him and congratulated him. “See you next winter,” I said. “I’ll look for you”.

I returned to Lagos the following year and once again went looking for Francisco. There was a notice on the door of the barbershop indicating that they would re-open a month later. I found that unusual, it seemed at odds with Francisco’s work ethic.

A few days later my partner came home from a stroll through the Old Town and she told me that she had seen Francisco. He was working at his former location. I needed a haircut so I headed to the Old Town.

As I approached the storefront I noticed that the bright-colored sign on the window read Barbearia Vieria, a new name. I entered the familiar shop and Francisco greeted me warmly.

The first thing he pointed out was that the photo I had given him now hung on the wall amongst a collection of photos of barbershops from other parts of the world. I told him that next winter I would bring him a photo of a Canadian barbershop to add to his collection. He thanked me.

The new shop had a different look. The decor remained simple. Francisco seemed happier as if having his own space had fulfilled a long-term ambition. He had become self-employed.

He grew up in a small village in central Portugal, just south of Lisbon. His mother was a hairdresser and while going to high school he had been given the opportunity to apprentice in a hair salon. That’s where he learned his trade.

For years he was a hairdresser working in an upscale salon but he found women difficult to please, so he became a barber. “it’s so much simpler” he told me, “Men are easy to please.”

Over the next few months, we chatted about this, that, and the other. The “blandification of our whole situation” as songwriter Greg Brown would say.

Francisco was now the master of his domain, so he spun a CD that introduced me to the music of Ana Moura, “one of the top three Portuguese Fado singers” he claimed. I fell in love with her music at first listen.

A couple of days before returning to Canada I visited Francisco for a final haircut that winter. He took his time as if he knew how much I enjoyed the experience. When he finished he removed the barber’s cape, gave my shirt a few last swipes with his brush, looked me in the eye and said “Today… for you… no money.”

I was incredibly touched by his generous and friendly gesture. I didn’t know how to respond other than to refuse the offer. He deserved payment for his service. “You are a great customer, a good man,” he said. I thanked him.

We said goodbye. I surreptitiously left a bill on the counter and walked away. In retrospect, I probably should have accepted his gift as he had accepted mine.

I am not entirely sure what the life lesson, or the take-away from this story really is. For me, it boils down to a feeling. An appreciation of a job well done by someone whose pride, integrity, and skill add up to old-world values that seem to be eroding.

My point of reference comes from a haircut at a Great Clips franchise outlet in San Francisco. An experience that felt as unsatisfying as taking a shower with your clothes on. Wham-Bang, thank you man! Now get the hell out of my chair so I can get back to scrolling on my phone.

A memorable experience for all the wrong reasons. I returned to Lagos the following winter. I had searched for a quintessential Canadian barbershop to photograph in order to add to Francisco’s photo collection. I found the perfect location, but it was not a Great Clips outlet.