My First Shave By Someone Else
Saturday morning I went into Valentino's Barber Shop on East Main St. In Bridgeport, Connecticut. Two chairs, one barber. His name is Paul and he's abiout 60 years old and moved here from Turkey about eight years ago. I first visited his shop Friday afternoon but there were four guys before me and I couldn't wait that long. I did however wait long enough to get a sense of the skill level and warmth of Paul.
When I returned the next morning, there was one man getting a haircut and no one but me waiting. So I sat quietly and looked at a few magazines while Paul cut his client's hair. When he was finished, the man left very happy and Paul thanked him profusely for his business. It was my turn, and I have to admit, I was nervous.
I have been getting my haircut by a "stylist" since I got out of the Navy in 1981. I don't know why but I just never considered going to a barber. This past week I got it into my head to get a shave from a barber and with very little investigation, I learned of Paul who will shave my beard as well as give me a haircut. When he invited me to sit down, I told him I wanted a haircut and a shave. He cheerfully said, "Okay, that's very nice".
Paul's English is not very good but it didn't stop me from enjoying the conversation as he cut my hair with a degree of precision I have never experienced. The pride he took in his work was astounding. His skill was that of an artist. I was completely relaxed. There was a television in the shop which he tuned to the World Cup Soccer game. I don't follow sports and my eyeglasses were on the counter in front of me so I couldn't watch the game and I don't know enough to have an intelligent discussion about it anyway. Paul however managed to tell me how Italy was doing (he somehow knew I was Italian witout me saying so) and he told me that Turkey would be playing the Czech Republic the next day. Naturally, he was excited about Turkey's match. Before I knew it, the barber was removing my big smock thing and blowing the hair from me. He then walked away without saying a word, leaving me in the chair.
I thought he may not have understood I wanted a shave and I would have been okay with that. By now, I was getting a little nervous about the shave thing. I don't like people touching me and I get a little claustrophobic when I have to sit still for too long. But Paul came back with a large bowl of hot water, a can of Gillette Foamy a large badger brush, a big, brown terry cloth towel, a paper towel and a straight razor. I couldn't see the brand but I watched as he put a new blade in the razor so it was some sort of feather or shavette. He raised the head rest on my chair and sat me back as he pressed my head into the headrest. The brown terry towel was draped over my chest and he began to massage my face. Before I could make a decision as to whether or not I was annoyed by this guy rubbing and pulling on my face, he began working a warm lather into my face with the brush.
Now when I shave myself I just slap the lather on and shave it off. That's the way I've done it for the past thirty some years. This time Paul worked the lather into my two day old beard for about five minutes. I expected a hot towel but Paul had a different technique. He ground the lather in and around as he painted more and more lather with increasing force until my face began to tingle and feel hot. He would use the big brush on my neck and cheeks but only his finger to spread lather onto my upper lip, obviously not wanting to stick the brush into my nostrils. Then out came the razor.
With great deftness the well mannered and perfectly manicured Turk moved that remarkably sharp razor around my face. He would stretch my skin and shave the taught area so fast I was awestruck. He worked small areas methodically pulling on the skin in various directions. The areas that give trouble he wrangled with seemingly no thought at all. He'd grab my lip with his fingers and pull it this way or that as he slid the sharp steel against my skin. Under my nose he seemed to throw the razor at me and it hiit the upper lip at the perfect angle while he held my nose up toward my forehead. My chin was done while he enjoyd a goal being scored on a field in Austria. The man was amazing. When he finished, Paul rubbed every inch of my face in every direction possible. This time, it felt good. Then, he began to lather me up again.
I wanted to stop him. I was sure the once over was more than adequate but Paul was already well into the plastering of my face with the thick, hot lather. Again he rubbed the stuff into my skin as if he was trying to spackle a wall full of nail holes. The he began the second pass. This time I watched how he would shave off a quantity of lather and swiftly wipe the razor clean on the palm of his left hand. He managed to deposit lather (and whatever whiskers he gathered) into his palm until his hand was too full to effectively use those fingers to stretch my face. At that time he'd turn toward the counter in front of my chair and wipe his hand clean on the paper towel he placed there. When he finished the second pass (completely against the grain), he wiped my face with the brown towel and then he walked away with his bowl, brush and can of Foamy. The razor he had deposited in a small cabinet under the counter. Again, I had no idea if I was finished or not. So ijust sat there, patiently.
Paul came right back and picked up the razor again. He felt my face very carefully and touched up a little bit here, a bit more there. He looked at my sideburns and trimmed them to fine points with the still sharp blade. He ran the razor around my neck and even on my forehead to even up my eyebrows. Then came the aftershave.
I managed to not scream as the alcohol did it's thing. Paul made it easier by not just splashing the blue liquid on but massging it into my remarkably smooth face and neck. Then he patted some powder on the entire shaved area and massaged some more. Another application of aftershave and then he picked up an electric clipper and did my neck down into my shoulders. Out came the razor again, more fine tuning on my hairline before he worked in some gel and combed my hair perfectly. I began to feel like I had won some sort of contest or had suddenly become w wealthy man.
Paul finally decided he was done. I had been in that chair for nearly an hour and a half. When Paul gave me my glasses I looked admiringly at the marvelous haircut and I rubbed my face in total disbelief. I could not feel the slightest hint of a whisker anywhere he had shaved. This was without a doubt the closest shave I have ever experienced. The haircut easily the most precise Id ever had. I felt like I had just received a "makeover". I was smoother than the proverbial baby's butt and my haircut made me feel like a teenager again. I thanked Paul and asked him what I owed him. He said, "Twenty five my friend" I was moved almost to tears. This was the best I have ever been treated. This was the best haircut I had ever gotten. This was the best shave I ever had and the only one ever done by anyone other than me. I handed the man a fifty dollar bill and told him, "Fifty is better". He thanked me, shook my hand and I wished him luck with the game tomorrow. As I left the shop I said, "Happy Father's Day" and I wondered how long would it be before I could justify going back for another shave and haircut.
