For at least ten years, Umberto has been my barber during my summers in Italy. It’s almost been a ritual that I get a haircut upon arrival and a day or two before I leave. There was always a cut or two in between, depending on how long I stayed.
I have never received a better haircut. He never used an electric clipper. With scissors in hand, his motion never ceased .He took his time, never rushing, even though he had other clients waiting.
It was a two-chair shop with one chair never being used. The marble counter top had hundreds of burns attesting to his nasty habit. All ignored the “No Smoking” sign.
Like the barbers where I grew up, Umberto knew my life and I his. On my last trip, He had just married off his only daughter whose biological clock was almost complete. He didn’t have much hope for grand children.
This morning I arrived at his shop before he opened. After 15 minutes and still not open, I walked a few doors down to the coffee bar. Pepe, the hardware store owner, was enjoying his coffee and I asked him what time Umberto opens. He looked up and said ,“ He won’t”, “He’s dead”.
He was younger than me.
He won’t see his grand children, if there are any.
I have to find another barber.
©2010
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