Eduardo scissorhands and the 'get him' haircuts

Needing a haircut in a foreign land is always odd. For women, I must say, it has to be easier. The standards are always high. Women are treated well whereever they are. No such luck for guys. For us a barbers can be VERY different, city to city, let alone country to country. And so the dark tale unfolds,....

I needed a haircut, I'd let it grow and it had grown too much, I had to put a stop to it.

Finding a cabeleireiro, was hard, pronouncing it was harder. I spent about 2 hours looking for one, and 2 weeks trying to say the damn word. I sound like a boxer who has broken his jaw trying to say something after drinking one to many,... it's attractive.

So i get directed to one, plodding on in the burning sun. I'm in a tee shirt, others are head to toe covered, I keep forgetting, its 'winter'. I arrive into what can only be described as a, well, my feeble mind can't think of a good description, apart from the fact that it was dingy, dark and looked like it was out of a weird 1970's detective film. The hair cuts, to my shock, matched. No one wanted razors, so they new I was um estrangeiro. Pity, tho i'd much prefer coming out with pride than looking like a 1970s porno reject, sorry detective film reject. Same thing. Back to the story,

I'm sitting there thinking how I can explain it, wishing I'd revised, (or rather learnt) some haircut vocab. My turn in the chair. The dude takes a phone call. Mighty professional there detective Joao Silva. Anyway, a few chuckles later and the spotlights on the dumb dude. I just say um pouco acqui, pouco aqui, and motion the length. I say for him to use, and point to the clippers.

This is when the detective morphs into a superhuman, or rather ageing odd looking. EDUARDO scissorhands. 5 motions of the scissors, with only one chop, his accuracy is shocking (note:bad)
and I'm now sitting in my chair practically saying my prays outloud, who gives a, they wouldn't undestand jake, jack i mean, anyway. So... I try and think of something to say but my limited skills can't be used. I wish I could say something, anything to calm the manic pace at which Eduardo is chopping.

Finale. Good. I'm alive. No. Funk. What's he doing. He goes to get a cut throat razor and motions over my neck, cutting fine hairs around my ears and back of the neck, this actually hurts. Someone get some help; Englishman in pain. 10 euros later and he cut my forehead(aggrevating a lovely spot) and made my hairline as a red as an embarrassed Englishman walking down the road with blood and hair mixed up on his face, sweating buckets in the middle of winter.

Well. Eduardo, despite his lack of the knack for his 'trade', is probably getting rich from his 5 minute quick wrist action, 'get him' haircuts. Another haircut done and dusted. As you can tell from my tone, I'll be seeing Eduardo again, possibly in hell.