What Hocka?

I get my beard trimmed at the Oaxaqueña barbershop on Pico. I know it's a Oaxaqueña barbershop because they have a big sign that says "Peluqueria Oaxaca." The Oaxacans like to let you know.  In my neighborhood there’s a Oaxaqueña butcher, a Oaxaqueña shoe store, and of course multiple Oaxaqueña restaurants. There's even a Oaxaqueña hardware store. That's right, the nuts and bolts are Oaxacan! The Oaxacans take great pride in where they’re from. Also Oaxaqueña looks great printed, as words with both Xs and Qs are very sexy. I wonder if Oaxaca is filled with places called Detroit Barbershop and Detroit Hardware. Detroit is also a great word but for completely different reasons. What was I talking about? Oh, that's right, getting my beard trimmed.

A barbershop is like the set of a play and the barbers, the characters. This play is a Mexican Three Sisters with Uncle Vanya sweeping the sidewalk in front. None of the sisters is in "mourning for her life" like Chekhov’s “Masha”, but all you have to do is look at them and you know they’ve all been through some shit.

The oldest sister wears glasses and looks like a school teacher. She's pleasant and the last time I got trimmed it was on her watch. To be honest she gave me a bit of a rush job, setting the trimmer to “4” and wham bam thank you mam. But I think she had things on her mind so I forgive her. The middle sister has a slight Mrs. Potato-head look (Señora Cabeza de Papas), and a sweet sadness in her eyes. It may even be profound acceptance.

The third sister, and the youngest is the fabulous Millie, who is my favorite, and who trimmed my beard this last time. She always spots me when I walk in and if her chair’s free she offers a smile that means nothing to her but makes me feel like she wants to run away with me to Belize. I should really say that she's my co-favorite because as much as I like having her, shears in hand, face close to mine, I may like Osvaldo even more. That's Uncle Vanya.

I will try to do sloppily with words what a picture could communicate instantly, which is make you feel the deep, sandal-wearing, brown-eyed wisdom of Osvaldo. It’s all in his gaze. He exudes kindness, a simple ease that disarms any 21^st century nonsense you might drag in with you. You can’t feel uptight around the dude. The ten feet surrounding him is a no tension zone in all directions. Just his hands, his beautiful, strong, soft but leathery, working man hands. The time and tenderness in them. He puts them on my face or the back or my neck or right on my shiny bald pate and whatever I didn't get in childhood he gives me, settling my soul in a way no therapy ever has.

I don't know if he's sixty-eight or eighty-five but when he’s finished, and looks me in the eye and nods that smile, I'm home. I know that if this cat is in my personal orbit, I must be doing something right with my life. And he pampers me! With liniments and oils, ointments and onguents, hot towels and back rubs-- I feel like Sky Masterson and want to flip a silver dollar off my thumb that he snags out of the air as I walk out the door. I haven't even told you about his amazing feet-- wide, worn and sturdy in his Bargain Fair sandals, as solidly on this earth as an elephant’s.

Every time he trims my beard or hair I get so crazy in love with him that I realize I have to film him in action and start thinking about the shots and the music and whether we can do an effect where Osvaldo's feet don't touch the ground as he works until he finally floats away like an angel, and suddenly I'm no longer having the experience, I'm worried about capturing it. About getting everyone to understand the profound beauty of Osvaldo instead of just being content that I do.

But back to Millie. She's a killer with her matching barber outfit (a sort of medical assistant look) and her wonderful long mane, the rust-henna dye job making absolutely no sense but total sense. I didn't even know her name was Millie until Wednesday. We were talking and she asked me mine and so I asked her hers and so now, ten trims in, we are on a first name basis.

Millie has an interesting ability to be both extremely warm and very private. She’ll invite you in with one glance then show you the door with the next. And she’s intensely female. Her shape and energy, the fullness of her mouth and the knowing in her eyes. She’s had a lot of male attention sent her way and she’s figured out how to deal with it, neither shutting it down nor egging it on. We enjoy each other and find our way somewhere between Spanish and English. She tells me about her kids (her daughter is second in her class at a magnet school for engineering) and husband and we agree that marriage isn’t easy. “Es alto y bajo” I say and she gives a knowing smile, a tiny wince flashing at the corners of her mouth.

The last time she trimmed me up was before I went to Oaxaca this past April. I marched in all proud, lettin’ her know I was headed to her home town but she was like “sorry, I’m from Jalisco.” We talked a bunch that day and when she asked me what I did I told her I wrote movies and mentioned I was writing the new Shrek flick, which made her smile. But it wasn’t until I told her I had written a movie with Antonio Banderas that she lit up.

The other day I was the only one in there. It was just me, Millie, who was groomin’ me up, and Señora Cabeza de Papas. Millie told her I wrote movies and I started to tell them about it, going on the greatest Spanish run of my life. The words were pouring out of me and what I lacked in grammar I made up for in poetry. “To do the job well you have to find the playful child inside, el niño en tu corazon.” Then this other woman who walks up and down Pico selling sandwiches and containers of guacamole came in and suddenly I was holding court in my wobbly but affective Spanish as Millie gave a me a slow and thorough going over, her lovely smile shining on me like a lantern. Since the oldest sister was out on the sidewalk talking on the phone I told them how the last time I was in she gave me the bum’s rush. “She set the trimmer on Numero cuatro” I said, mimicking her quickly buzzing my beard then lifting my leg as if she were kicking me out of the chair and into the street. “No hay tiempo para el pobre Tomas.” They got a chuckle out of that one.