Cuts

After cruising downtown Maputo for months, panic slowly enveloping my gut as I sought out a barber shop meeting my exacting standards, I finally found one that looked like it might do the trick. While there was no barber pole, the subdued signage "barbeiro azul" evoked pirates, and the understated yet professionally enameled "close the door, a/c in use" sign hanging in the door meant it might be cool inside.

I entered, the window blinds clanging against the door, and all eyes turned towards me. Not unfriendly, but maybe hiding quiet speculation as to the motives of a foreign white guy wandering into the shop. It reminded me of going to get my last cut in Washington Heights. The three chairs in the front room clearly dated from the Portuguese era, and appeared to be working. The barbers working the chairs all had smart white jackets with blue trim, and the orderly constant sweeping up of discarded hair clippings made for a cleaner environment than some operating rooms in Mozambique (could I get my spleen out as well, should I require?).

Aside from the medical appearance, their outfits had a vaguely zoot-suit flair, which stemmed from the hand-stitched navy blue baseball caps that they wore brim tilted slightly to one side. Throw a little patina on the film, add a kicking base to the sound track and toss a little more bling on the customers, and I could have been in a video recreating a hip-hop vision of the roaring 40s.

I was distracted from my pondering by one of the barbers indicating an empty chair with his comb. My time had come. I eased into the cracked leather seat. Next to me a politician was getting a shave, a shoe shine boy confiscated his shoes to give them a buff while his face was getting shaven. Seemed efficient, I would have copped the move but was overcome with liberal second-guessing "is it neocolonial to get a shoe shine?" and the paranoia of the temporarily wealthy "will I get my shoes back?" I missed my opportunity, so would have to wrestle with dusty shoes for at least another day.

It turned out to be a Xangana joint, but in spite of the poor communication I got a great cut.

What's your sign?

Sitting on the veranda, a gusty breeze of almost-rain stirs the plants, blue flashes of sporatic heat lightening reflect off the overcast late-evening sky, and the small neon cross* on the church steeple across the street provides a steady but weak otherworldly glow.



________
*while "neon cross" may evoke populist spirituality, with browbeating and speaking in tongues, the beamers and SUVs with diplomatic plates scattered on the sidewalks around it on Sunday mornings make me suspect otherwise.