Buzzed and defuzzed

In my first days in La Vega, I met Rafelito. The son of one of my project partners, he had grand aspirations for “Dominicanizing” my style, with the express purpose of facilitating my obtainment of premium Dominicana, naturally. For the record, Rafelito is 30, single, unemployed, living with his mom, with a 7 year-old son; during our time together, he bought a lottery ticket, saying he had to win big so he could pay off a $100 loan which he had backed with his motorcycle. He had taken out the loan to pay for his kid’s health care. I hoped he would Dominicanize me only in style.

Maybe a month later, Rafe pulled up one afternoon in the motorcycle, told me it was haircut/party time. Any good PCV knows you don’t turn down such an invitation, so out we went. First stop: the hair man. As you can see, the barber shop has the most of the fixtures of one in the States—disinfectant not being one of them. Note that Jonathan the barber is a kid around my age, hence the Scarface poster and babe calendar.

A little back story: During our 2.5 months of training, Dominicans would ask me, “So it’s been a while since you got your hair cut, ¿no?” : “You don’t get your hair cut very often, ¿do you?” : “¿Why don’t you get your hair cut?” And every time I would think, “It’s been only a month or two since I shaved my head. What’s the big deal?” When I found out that my host brother here in La Vega, in this family of very modest means, gets a trim every week or two, I realized that my “long” hair indicated a lack of personal upkeep. Coupled with an untrimmed beard, which was indeed just that even by my own admission, I probably came off as something of a slob. Ouch.

So this was my chance to shape up. It took maybe 10 minutes to establish what kind of cut I’d get. They kept asking whether I wanted it towards the back or the front; I didn’t know what that meant, so I just kept saying that it’s hot as balls in this country and that I wanted it short, a request which, by itself, wasn’t, um, cutting it. In the end we settled on something. I’m not sure what that was, but I guess the result pleased me. It’s a little more Jean-Claude Van Damme then I’m used to, but nothing: the kid worked long (half hour maybe) and diligently on it, with a keen attention to detail. Same with the shave—all facial hair dispatched with, and not a scratch. I’d never had another shave my face, but I might make a habit out of it now. Total cost: about $3.70.

Nothing much happened after that: a beer with his cousin which I paid for, back to mom’s house for video games, then a perilous trip home on the country’s main highway, perilous to begin with. Evidently the motorcycle no longer has a headlight, so we drove in the shoulder with a flashing turn signal to guide our way, splashing through pothole puddles. I’ve never been so happy to be wearing a helmet.

I haven’t hung out with Rafe since. Though he didn’t ask me to pay off his loan, I’m sure any future engagement with him would be a me-pay-everything affair. Besides, I simply have cooler people to spend time with. As for the trim, it was the first instance of quality workmanship I witnessed in this country; most everything is done so half-assed, with no sense of pride or perfection. I can only call it an inspiring event, and consoling, to know there are Dominicans who take their occupation seriously. And best of all, all the moms back in the ‘hood pinched my cheeks and said I had some premium Dominicana in my future.