This is a Man’s World

Do you feel it? The sunshine of a clear winter day on your skin. The busy traffic of Bairro Alto rushing through the small streets. The cold ocean breeze blowing through your hair. . .

My hair. . . something’s wrong with it.

Walking down the Rua do Alecrim I happen to notice a small shop with a barber’s pole on its old storefront. Is it a hairdresser? I cross the street and get closer to its small and dusty windows. The lights are on but a shutter makes it difficult to get a glimpse of the interior. I guess it’s time to go in.

I stand in front of a metal door and notice a warning. Men only! The door keeps its promise and opens only with a healthy dose of power.

And there it is. A barber like from the good old days (I suppose). It smells like aftershave and hair pomade. Four guys in white coats are busy shaving and cutting hair while music from the 1950s is playing in the background.

As I step on the colorful tiles, a man with carefully combed hair and a trimmed beard welcomes me while pointing to a free place on a couch. I’m third in line and so I let my eyes wander across the room for a moment.

The interior features all kinds of vintage Whiskey boxes and hunting trophies wearing bowler hats with pink lingerie. All barbers are inked, have slick cuts and beards and wear a casual 50's look. It feels like a mix of a fireplace room and a mafia-like underground venue where the godfather could step in at any time and no one would even care.

Suddenly, a barber stands in front of me and asks if I’d like to have a beer. I’m a bit surprised but accept the offer that I couldn’t possibly refuse. Together with the other guests, I enjoy the ice cold beverage while listening to the smooth sounds of Chuck Berry. In the meantime, women are constantly but kindly asked to wait outside. This is truly a Man’s World.

It’s already dark outside as one of the men invites me to take a seat on an antic barber chair. We discuss the following course of action and agree on a traditional pompadour.

After a silent one-hour procedure of meticulously precise work, it’s done. It’s hard to recognize myself in the mirror but it was worth it. With a firm handshake we seal the deal and I’m ready leave as a twin of James Dean.

A strange feeling overcomes me. I want to suit up, jump in my muscle car and cruise to the next whiskey bar. I shake my head. . . must be the alcohol.

On the doorstep I turn around, say bye to everyone and leave probably one of the last places of pure manhood.