Roughly four fifty

When I was about 12 or so my father sent my brother and me to the barber shop owned by a guy called Wahid in Park Street. He used a comb, scissors and a razor to have the job done. I realised that you must do the listening and let the barber do the talking for he was the one with the equipment that could butcher your head.

Another barber was Bio when we lived in Boissiere Village. As he was cutting my hair, he would preach sermonettes about the teachings of Jesus, the four gospels and the missionary work of St Paul. Bio had built a tiny one-man hut on a nearby hill, where he used to sit, read the Bible and meditate for hours.

In Barataria, I had my hair cut at Truman’s Barber Shop near Jumbie Bridge. That place was always crowded and the barber was always arguing about something — some referee who “tief” or some umpire who is a crook or somebody in a “bobol”.

In July 1962, my wife and I and our two-year-old son Richard came to live in the new Diamond Vale housing development by Homes International of Puerto Rico. Early in September, I left for England on a British Council Scholarship and while at Queen’s Gardens, my barber was a Caucasian in Paddington. He thought I was from the Sudan and I thought he was from Ireland but he was originally from Scotland. The flu never left and he used to cough, sneeze and blow his nose all over my head continuously for the five or six haircuts.

Back home, I went to the village barber who was called simply “Barber”. When he left for the States, his assistant Forbes took over and he trimmed me for well over 25 years. Endless people used to be in and out of his barber shop, just dropping in to chat with Forbes or to have a drink.

In 1989 when Trinidad needed to score only one goal against USA and head for Italy for the World Cup, Forbes predicted that, “We’ll give them five goals and go on to win the World Cup”. Not one man argued with Forbes and although I thought his prediction was preposterous, I said nothing because no one ever won an argument with Forbes.

About six years ago, when I went for a haircut, there was a vegetable mart in place of the barber shop. As usual I parked my car in the Anglican cemetery opposite and walked across the road only to be told that Forbes had migrated to the States. Months later I found out that he had gone on holiday and had retired from the job.

I decided to have my hair cut by a very old barber in Clarence Street, St James but when I entered the shop, there were three ladies there. I enquired about the barber and they told me he had gone to the great beyond. As I was about to leave one of them with a beautiful voice said, “Sir, don’t tell me you have something against female barbers?”

As she ran her fingers through my hair, I realised for the first time in my life how pleasurable a haircut could be. No razor was used but she worked with a scissors and a clipper. I started to think seriously about having my hair cut once a month but was afraid that my wife would get suspicious.

My lovely lady barber Reshma has been doing an excellent job. I really enjoy chatting with my barber especially when she tells me about her husband and daughter in the presence of my wife Nesta whom I always beg to accompany me.

Once, while having a haircut, a guy looked at his bicycle’s front wheel at the kerb. When he came out, a thief had stolen the saddle.