The Barber of Valencia

Had I traveled to Seville, this story might have carried a grander title, a 300-year-old homage. But I didn’t—I went to Valencia. And that’s where, in a barber’s chair, something unexpected happened.

Photo by Guus Baggermans on Unsplash

When I was a kid, back in Brazil, I used to get my hair cut by the same barber, Mr. Zé. His shop was right across from my grandmother’s house, and I just had to cross the street to get there. My grandfather usually took me, holding my arm in his left hand while his right hand carried a jar of freshly made coffee. It was a gift he delivered twice a day to Mr. Zé, his longtime friend. That coffee kept their relationship strong and my haircuts free.

I had countless Mr. Zé haircuts until I was 10 years old. They were not spectacular but professional. The standard white-boy cut was suitable for all occasions and precisely the same no matter how many times I asked Mr. Zé to do something different. He always agreed with my requests and delivered the exact same cut as all the other times before.

Chernobyl

The Mr. Zé era ended when my dear mother decided to take over, even though she had no experience cutting hair nor any talent, as my first haircut would soon prove. It started on a Sunday night, changing my life forever.

I can never forget. Unlike at Mr. Zé’s place, my mother’s salon was inside her bathroom, and I could not see the progress of her work. Instead, I would hear the clicks and clacks of her scissors, going fast through my long, beautiful, dark hair, sometimes touching my scalp in a way Mr. Zé never did.

When she was done, I could feel a little tension in the air. She took some time to give me the small mirror, even though a bigger one was nearby. She raised it rapidly, going around my hair, so I didn’t have time to fully appreciate her incredible achievement.

I finally took the mirror in my hands and observed, for the first time, the face of a cute boy transformed in front of his reflection. My mother had utterly destroyed my hair. Her cut made me look like a Chernobyl victim, and my head had as many holes as the surface of the moon.

The next day was, for some reason, the second worst trauma I’ve ever experienced in school. The first, also caused by my mother, would come a few years later. But the situation was so bad that my teacher took me to the school’s emergency so the nurses could check if I was okay.

Before and after the haircut from my mother

Cut to my adult life, and I chose not to have an official haircut. I’ve never had a longtime barber and ended up having haircuts all over the world. I had it in England, the United States, Poland, Israel, Italy, France, and pretty much any country I had the fortune to land in with long hair. I became an expert in worldwide haircut culture and, as a result, never had the Rodrigo cut, the one that would indemnify me in a crowd. And I was okay with it. As long as it looked professional and not done by my mom, I felt safe in this world.

I am not Oscar Isaac (apparently)

And then came Valencia. I arrived with the most extended hair I’ve had since the Chernobyl incident. I was trying to get into a philosopher look, but I noticed my philosophy was not improving despite the look. So, while in Valencia, I decided to have, once again, one of my infamous impromptu haircuts with a barber I’d never seen before.

I Googled the closest shop with more than four stars and walked for seven minutes until I reached the door. One barber was working seriously on a customer while the other was reading something funny on his phone, waiting for the next walk-in client. I walked in and became the client he was waiting for.

The Valencian barber, Alfredo, asked me what style I was going for. I pulled a picture of the actor Oscar Isaac that I had saved a while back and showed it to him, assuring him that Isaac and I were fortunate to have the same hair type. Alfredo laughed, looked at the photo, looked at me, and laughed a bit more. “No,” he said. “Not the same at all.” The connection between his laughter and face made me realize that not only did I not have a Hollywood star’s hair, but I was also very, very far from it. “I trust you,” I said, reminding myself of the many times I had said those words and regretted it. But my opinions were not many at this point.

The barber turned the music up and got to work. Cut here, cut there, a move to the electric razor, and a little treat to my beard. It was a half-an-hour Spanish dance of skills and taste. So quick, I couldn’t believe anything good would come out of it. I was, of course, wrong.

He stripped away the philosopher’s chaos with every snip and sculpted something sharper, more defined. In that chair, I finally saw a version of myself I didn’t want to outgrow.

Alfredo delivered the best haircut of my life—sharp, confident lines and curves where they were needed. With precision and speed, he tamed the back, neatly tapered the sides, and left the top with just enough volume to suggest intention. For the first time, I had a haircut that wasn’t just acceptable—it was me. Alfredo created the Rodrigo Cut I never knew I needed.

The blessing of the newfound treasure, of course, came with a curse. Alfredo lives in Valencia. And I don’t. And that could only mean one thing. For the rest of my life, I will travel to Spain every month to keep looking like I should. And perhaps, after a while, I will be able to finally forget all the holes my mother carved in my head and soul.

Rodrigo Bressane
Valencia, Spain

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