CUBAN TRANSITIONS

I wander the streets expectantly. I know it was around here, but the metal lattice balconies, blues greens yellows and whites of peeling paint all blend together. Persistent bells of the mototaxis, the subtle scent of exhaust, food, and people. I gaze in wonder at this humming hive of purpose. Why does it all make so much sense when I’m not the one living it? I’m jolted from my reverie by a shout, “Ven ven ven!” I glance suspiciously across the street at a man waving his arms, beckoning me into his barber shop. But this isn’t the man I remember and I’m not in the mood to be asked for money. I use my trusted get-off-my-back phrase “Ya regreso!” and continue picking my way along the cracked and pit filled sidewalk. I look back to see the man still staring at me and then I see the bird outside in its cage. It is Endy; he’s just shaved his head and taken off his white santería initiation clothes.  We greet each other warmly; “no me reconociste,” he laughs. The barber shop Anna and I had visited two weeks ago is completely transformed. Not physically; the cracked and tarnished mirrors still line one wall, an old radio in the back crackles out music, faded baseball team posters hang limply from the walls, and the yellowed fluff from the swivel chairs pokes out at odd angles like the few popped kernels at the bottom of the popcorn pot. But the room is now swirling with activity; two men stare intently at a checkers board, a man with a sports jersey and white cream covered face stands inches from the mirror shaving with what looks to me like a WWII rusted razor blade, a burly man fiddles with the radio in the back, a young guy yells good naturedly into the telephone pulled on a curly wire from the wall. The rest of the customers lounge, watching the three barbers shave and trim heads of hair, and wholeheartedly participating in the endless stream of conversation. I sit down to wait my turn after Endy has assured me he can cut women’s hair as well.

The man with the WWII razor blade approaches me when he’s done. He offers me his name, Jorge, and a quick tour of the area since the wait is clearly going to be awhile. “Quick” meant a stroll down the street stopping to say hi to every passerby, a coffee in the café his soccer buddy works at where we see the second half of a US baseball game, and after I told him of my Ecuadorian connections, an introduction a block away to a barber who had lived in Quito. About an hour later Jorge brings me back to the barber shop, more purposefully chaotic than ever. At my request a shy customer named Oscar begins to teach me dama, the Cuban version of checkers. His explanations are cut short when it’s his turn to play; I may not have mastered the game, but I get a good taste of the unwavering attention it requires. A few of the men wave me forward even though they were there before me. “Al fin,” I grin at Endy as he sits me down and drapes a yellowing towel over my shoulders.

As he begins to chop at my luscious locks it becomes abundantly clear that he hasn’t had much experience with women’s hair after all. I stop him abruptly. “Actually Endy, I want you to do what you’re good at. How about you shave a star into the back of my head so I can show my devotion to Che?” It didn’t take much convincing and as my star forms a crowd gathers to help hold my hair out of the way, offer trimming advice, and poke fun at Endy’s skills. I take the opportunity to ask as many questions as my awkward neck angle will allow. I learn that due to the new law allowing private businesses this barber shop became particular only a month ago meaning Endy and his partner Annia don’t have to pay rent to a middle man and to the government; now only the government must be paid regular taxes on their business. He explains that most Cuban men get their hair cut once a week and therefore the local barber is a vital gathering space to exchange news, discuss issues, and support each other through difficult times. “Si no tenemos nada, que nos queda pero reirnos, disfrutar, y compartir entre todos? Somos del costumbre de la conversa,” (“If we don’t have anything, what’s left but to laugh, enjoy, and share among everyone? We have a conversational culture”) he shrugs. This truly collectivist sentiment was always surprising to me in Cuba, for some reason I didn’t think people would actually think this way, but the camaraderie and solidarity in that barber shop was palpable. Slapping of backs, haggling over bets, sharing sports news, kissing newly shaven heads all came naturally in that space. As Fairley notes, “they continually discuss news, views, and gossip with each other in public and private spaces. Talking, chatting and discussing are key Cuban activities. The grapevine is rapid” (Fairley 86). I learn more about Cuba in that afternoon listening to side conversations and chatting with Endy than I did from every single government presentation on the trip. I ask him what I owe him at the end of a draining journey through the recesses of my hair; “Solo lo que tu quieres pagarme” (“only what you want to pay me”). I give him ten CUC, a small fortune for a haircut I’ve learned would normally cost 25 cents (5 pesos cubanos). Fond and extensive farewells and promises are exchanged.

I leave the barber shop with a shaven star, many scribbled addresses, invitations to a baseball game and a birthday party, but most importantly I leave with a truer understanding of life in Cuba. “True, deep, dirty, loud, joyful, collective, unrestrained, and unabashed Cuba came out in my unforgettable barbero experience in La Havana” my journal reads, “I pull my hair up high, gladly showing my cubanidad to the gathered men, grinning at the impressed murmurs. I walk out waving and glancing back until I turn the corner.” I think I’ll forever be glancing back at Cuba and the unforgettable life lessons I was given there.

Estrella del Che

Fairley, Jan. “Ay Díos, Ampárame (O God, Protect Me):Music in Cuba during the 1990s, the ‘Special Period’.” Island Musics. Ed. Kevin Dawe.  Oxford: Berg, 2004. 77-99. Print.