My Santiago

Barbaeria in Habana

It is a balmy December afternoon

on a Saturday in Habana,

And I am in a Barberia in O’Rielly street,

Waiting my turn.

In the barber’s chair sits a substantial Cuban man,

Young and handsome,

In a fleshy sort of way;

He is having his head shaved.

The barber glides a deadly sharp razor,

With dexterity over the man’s scalp,

Precise, drawing no blood -and then - lovingly - rubs lotion over his scalp.

When my turn comes,

I convey my preferred haircut

with elaborate hand gestures,

“No hablo espanol “ -

And the help of customers.

A few things are - however -

lost in translation,

And I leave,

Hair graded,

Zero to One to Two

from bottom to top;

Knowing full well that a week is all it takes,

Between a poor haircut and normality.