BETWEEN FOUR JUNCTIONS DANIEL PORRITT

Vincenzo

I HAVE BEEN GOING to this barber roughly once every three months every year of my life. His name, according to the certificates he has proudly displayed, is Vincenzo. I expect his friends and family call him ‘Vince’. I am neither. I have returned to Vincenzo exclusively not because I find his skills exceptional, nor due to some sort of obsession. I simply think he does the job. He has successfully reduced the length of my hair on every request and has never left me feeling so ashamed of my appearance that I have covered my scalp with a hat or rag. What’s more, not a single drop of blood (from either of our two heads or four ears) has been shed on the floor of Vincenzo’s shop in fifteen years. I therefore think it unnecessary to put myself through the torment and anxiety of allowing another person to put scissors near my eyes; Vincenzo and I have an unspoken agreement that he won’t deliberately injure me, and a rapport of this level would take years to build with a new barber.

Vincenzo is bald. I like to think that he is so passionate about his job, so madly in love with the art of removing hair, that he shaves his own head as soon as a new hair begins to appear. I like to think this because it’s more fun than the alternatives – enjoying your career beats alopecia any day, in my opinion. I value Vincenzo’s service for another part of his skill set: the ability to shut up. Of course, like every hairdresser, he can maintain a conversation with even the most tedious football-loving gentleman. But when the caveman has left, and I enter the Chair of Hair, Vincenzo acknowledges my silence and returns it. On one occasion he broke the Holy Hush and asked me if I had any plans for Christmas. After receiving a response rich in brevity, he remembered our pact and lowered his head. He didn’t speak again. Of course, I have observed him talking with other customers, and have often been fascinated by what I hear. On one occasion Vincenzo was asked how he managed to stand up all day without his feet hurting. His response? “Good shoes.”

And his shoes are good. I cannot vouch for their tactile quality (I have never tried them on) but their appearance is second to none. They are the perfect length for his feet and are slightly pointed at the end – this feature, along with his below-average height and somewhat misshapen ears, renders his figure somewhat similar to a joyless elf. He keeps them well-polished at all times, but not so gleaming that they show off; they shine with a humble smile, pleasing the eye when looked upon, while not drawing attention away from other shoes (or any objects in the same eye-line, such as cats or people who have fallen over.) When required to do so, Vincenzo is able to smile and wear a mask of empathy; when talking to an elderly man who had recently slipped on ice, Vincenzo donned his caring cap and spoke to the customer in a gentle voice, telling the man that he needed “to be more careful” and that he was “worried” about him. A convincing performance, but I know him all too well to fall for it.

Vincenzo is not a weak man. I have seen him hold his ground (momentarily) in the face of a fierce challenge. After offering a sweet to a young boy one day, the uncouth youth asked if he could “Take one for his sister”. Vincenzo was thrown. In a matter of seconds, he had to weigh up the profit loss the extra sweet would cause, and the possible hell of a crying child if the second lollipop was not handed over. In the end, Vincenzo gave in, but a lesser man would have crumbled under the pressure instantly, not pausing for thought. I’m sure he, along with every witness, thinks about that day a lot. I know I do.

When he isn’t shaving heads or wrestling evil to the floor, he’s sweeping hair off it. There are few things in life as magical as watching Vincenzo sweep hair into the corner of a room. There is a beauty in the precision with which he guides the brush along the tiles, not allowing a single lock to be left behind. The aforementioned corner of the room, where loose hair is banished, is a wonder in itself. There lies the hair of many customers, all a slightly different colour and texture, like a keratin melting pot. I have never witnessed the clearing of the corner, but I’m sure every strand is disposed of swiftly and responsibly at the end of each day.

In conclusion, I have changed my mind. I do return to Vincenzo because I find his skills exceptional, and because I am obsessed with his methods. Perhaps, beneath his pale skin and glasses, he is a kind man. But the barbershop is no place for kindness. It is a ruthless business, requiring nothing less than total attention and energy at every moment. Vincenzo knows this. I hope he’s well.