One of the first things people learn about me is that, while I try to project an air of nonchalance and a general lackadaisical attitude toward giving a shit, I’m rather particular about very many things.
Although I cannot help my particular particularities regarding that with which I find myself to be quite particular, I realise that it is not always a well-received trait in an upstanding young man to be uptight; and for that reason, I try my very best to at least pretend to be patient, gentle, kind and generous.
However, the one thing that most easily cracks the mantle of my quiescence, is the thought of my hair.
I don’t think anyone has survived their youth without having made some awful style choices, recollections of which are now squirrelled away deep in the subconscious, memories looming large yet subtly peaking out in the darkest night. Needless to say, my mother’s photo albums are too much for me to bear, so I am more than happy to have been raised in the era just before social media.
As well as a lack of style, I was doubly blessed with an awkwardly shaped head, and an instinctual protective arrogance which screamed to the world, “I am more than my ridiculous poodle poof!” Since that combination of self-loathing and superficial hubris seemed to work so well, I didn’t much care how I looked for quite some time. And by that I mean I cared so deeply that it was psychologically easier for me not to do anything than it was to try, fail and risk further ridicule, self-inflicted or otherwise.
Then I met Dino.
Initially, I just needed a regular cut: the way it always was but shorter. And that’s what I got. However, slowly, over several years, Dino showed me, nay, trained me to believe that I, too, could be a good lookin’ dude with great hair. Looking back now, I can see the threads of subtle change Dino has woven into my life: encouraging me to take risks, to trust, and to accept the advice of others. I don’t have to have all the answers myself.
With that being said, I can still remember the trepidation I felt when I sat down in Dino’s chair, after two years of maintaining my non-style, and heard the words, “let’s try something different”.
Thankfully, with Dino’s help, I was able to let go, heed good counsel, and grow. Dino stayed with me ever since, preparing me for weddings, funerals, graduations, parties, fundraisers, galas, pain, struggle, and triumph.
I’ve read that tertiary relationships such as those we have with our barbers are important to good mental health. If that’s the case, I sincerely hope everyone can find themselves a Dino.
Alas, it was a heavy heart that I had to break the news that I was moving to Italy. While I shall return, who knows what the future brings? Before our final farewells, Dino made me promise that I would not let another man touch my hair, and I readily agreed. Many a stylist may come and go, but Dino the Barber is the only one for me.
Today I broke my promise.
If it’s any consolation, the young man who touched my head this morning is not yet a stylist nor is he a barber, so I don’t think it really counts even though my hair is technically shorter.
As I mentioned before, I’m weird about my hair, and am now very skeptical about the ability of any person that is not Dino. So when I was told that there was a chic school for savvy stylists and that they were always looking for suckers/models, I figured I may as well give it a whirl. If I know I’m going to hate the outcome regardless of the given circumstances, why pay for it?
To say I was nervous is an understatement. Not because of the hair bit, mind you, but because hair vocabulary is hard to learn! If I’m only going to the barber once every six weeks or so, I’m never going to remember all the subtle ways in which I want to describe precisely how I want every last follicle to sit.
The tiny elevator down to the underground science fiction barber bunker didn’t help assuage my fears.
Amidst the bright white lights, stainless steel and exposed concrete of Dr. Evil’s secret ironic Italian hair-lair, I met Ciro, my brand-new-baby-barber-to-be. Despite my attempts at rote memorization in the days previous, none of the words I studied had stuck with me when I first opened my mouth upon arrival. Thankfully, gentile Ciro (pronounced chee-roh, not Chihiro) instantly put me at ease, for after I (very obviously) noted that I don’t speak Italian very well, he replied, “that’s okay, neither do I”.
I was seated immediately, and the instruction began.
As the Bobby Fischer of Barbers, the principal instructor del giorno was Matteo, calmly walking back and forth between the twenty students and their model heads, making subtle suggestions, and indicating best practices to conceal, contrast or correct every minor bump or swirl of the scalp. At several points through our session, Matteo would shout to the class, and all the student stylists would throw down their razors (a slightly disconcerting hazard), and scurry toward their laconic lecturer so a quick lesson could be learned before they scampered back to their stations.
Almost an hour passed with Ciro meticulously carving the fringes of my hairline and sculpting a gentle fade as my hair crescendos upward, culminating in a grandiose flip-then-flop on top. After my old man ear hair was trimmed, Matteo came near and I was declared perfetto!
Whether it’s true or not, I left feeling good, as isn’t that what it’s really all about? Sell me the lie of my own self-confidence and I’ll happily wear my permanent cow-lick with pride.
I miss you Dino!
A Nix in Brixia 
