Three Sundays ago Kim and I took it into our heads to hop on a local bus just to see where it went. You know you’re in love when hopping on a bus with your bride just to see where it goes seems like fun. Or, you could be bored. But if being bored together seems better than being bored apart, well, that could be love too. 

The problem was this: we weren’t sure where the bus stop was, and it was drizzling. A man across the road, around age 70, seemed to understand the whole business. So he walked us over to the bus stop. Turns out the bus stop was a telephone pole. 

The man had time on his hands. He also had large teeth. So we pieced together some English and some Spanish and ended up having a pretty good time next to the telephone pole in the rain. His name was Jose. It turns out he once went to sea. I told him my story (he had his opinion of captains!) and we were soon fast friends.  

Jose had a knack, yea verily, a passion for communicating. He used his hands, his arms, especially his eyebrows, whatever it took, to keep the conversation rolling. By and by, a bus came along and he bid us farewell. Turns out he was only standing in the rain by a telephone pole for the pleasure of talking with us. What a guy.

A week later I recognized him at a different bus stop. Having gone native by now, I went up and shook his hand. This time we were both boarding the bus, headed in the same direction. At long last we were fellow travelers. 

He knew everyone. He worked his way down the aisle saying ‘hi’ to this one and ‘hello’ to that one, shaking hands with each, big teeth shining all the while. We were parted for a time but as the seats emptied out he came and sat right beside me. Being short on language, we resorted to beaming at one another like prom dates.  

Wishing to show my enormous appreciation for this chance meeting I made a quick inventory of my Spanish and said ‘I am going to get my hair cut.” I didn’t really want a haircut. I never do. But a recent lesson in the online Spanish course I am taking included vocabulary about haircuts. He, having little hair, was enthusiastic. With his entire body he began describing a place near the final bus stop where this service could be rendered. I nodded and smiled as one does when words fail.

We stepped into the sunshine and he ushered me across the road and, sure enough, there was the barber shop. I’ll never be clear about this part but I think he asked me if it was acceptable to have my hair cut by a woman. To whatever he said, I said “Sure!” Up the steps we went and came face to face with the barber. 

I don’t know how to put this easily. The barber was about my age but, well, I think she had been in a fire. Her face and her arms were severely scarred and grafted. In my own small town in Maine, there is a favorite citizen of mine, also a woman, also about my age, also severely scarred by fire. In consequence, I felt oddly equipped to let this stranger take a blade to my head. 

In the mirror, Jose settled in with a newspaper. The reflected headlines bespoke of the gruesome murder of a grandmother. At first, the barber worked fast. Hair flew. But then she slowed down and with a straight razor took great care over details that I did not know existed. 

There are so many jobs in this world and so many people doing them that it is always a marvel to witness a job - any job at all – done with care.

When she finished, I paid and thanked her. I’ll go back there for my next haircut, whether I need it or not. Jose bid me adieu on the corner. What a guy!  What a haircut!