A Trip to the Los Angeles Peluqueria

Through a strange twist of irony I somehow ended up in Lima with two (count 'em!) hair salons named after my former second hometown. And, lucky me, both Los Angeles Salons are conveniently located about two minutes from the Casona. I didn't bring my hair clippers to Lima (the only electronics I brought were my laptop and camera. Some might think I was being an efficient traveler, but I would have loved to bring my clippers. The problem is that Peru is a proud country of the Incans, llamas, Macchu Picchu, and 220V, and while my laptop and camera battery charger are well equipped to handle the robust Peruvian voltage, the clippers are not. I could have purchased a transformer [Maximals, MAXIMIZE!] but they are both pricey and bulky. And unless we are talking about Dustin Byfuglien I am not a big fan of items which are pricey and bulky), and it was time for a trim. I have not visited a barber since June of 2004 so I was understandably nervous. Also, I wasn't feeling super comfortable about describing my desired coif to the haircutter in Spanish. Would he/she know be judicious in the side burn line demarcation? Would she/he (look at that balance) exercise appropriate caution with follicle length? What about my cowlick, are we prepared for that? Granted, I don't have and didn't want a particularly complicated haircut (number 1 on the clippers all around), but I like looking my best. All this anxiousness was entirely unnecessary, but we'll find out more about that later.

I walked over to the Los Angeles Salon on "8" block of Avenida Grau (tell 'em Andrew sent you!) and was able to get a walk-in appointment. I then plopped down into the chair and started telling José what I needed. I thought that I wouldn't be able to find clippers with a #1 setting (referring to 1/8") because Peru is on the metric (read: intelligent) system, but fortunately hair clippers are truly a universal commodity. I told him I needed #1 all around. Then, clean up the neck and no funny business with the side burns. Despite my Spanish, I could tell we were on the same page so I let him get down to business. Once the clipping commenced so too began the casual barber-customer banter. I told him where I was from, what I'm doing in Lima, etc. Then he tells me that I have the most beautiful hair he has ever seen. Alright, I know I've got a pretty boss mane, but I think that's a bit of a hyperbole, don't you José? Also, you don't need to butter me up. I've already decided to get my hair cut, that's why I'm in the barber chair getting my hair cut. Whatever, I let it slide and directed my attention to CSI: Miami playing on the nearby television. I miss David Caruso's typical ill-timed zinger when José proceeds to tell me that I am "very handsome." Some have compared me to a young Paul Newman, so this isn't news to me, but I think things are getting a bit too friendly, José. I'm here for business only. Out of curiosity I ask him how old he thinks I am. That's when we went from excessive compliments to outright insult. 39?! I know I don't have what one would call a "baby face," but that's just absurd. I was rightly affronted, and when my haircut was complete I only left a $2.50 tip. Unfortunately, I may have sent the wrong message because I forgot to take into account that the haircut only cost $5.25. Oh well, he did a good job and a little ego stroking never hurt anyone.

To finish off this entry I would like to convey an important life lesson learned at the discotech: it is possible to fit three fully grown males onto a stripper pole, all while spinning and potentially threatening bodily injury to nearby dancers. No, there is nothing at all wrong with that.