I had passed it at least a dozen times by this point, midway through our week in Havana, part of The Art and Culture of Cuba class. It was a hole in the wall joint if I ever saw one, unassuming in every way except for the classic barber’s pole hanging just above head level, spinning lazily in the heat of midday.

A small sign hung above the doorway read “Union Barber shop.”

This time, one of the barbers was standing outside and for some reason I paused. I didn’t have too much time before we would all meet for dinner, and the idea of a haircut didn’t seem feasible, until I noticed Tim Donavan and Tyrone Shaw (fellow travelers) had paused with me. “Do you think I have enough time”? I asked.

They answered in unison: “Hell yeah.”

The barber and I did not speak each other’s language, but money is easy in any situation. He told me three Cuc’s (the Cuban convertible currency) and I was sold. Tim decided to stay behind to document the event. With a few gestures – pinched fingers for how short on the sides, another gesture for a little off the top, he seemed to get it right away, and a couple head nods later he was off.

I didn’t expect much, a simple cut and some small reprieve from the heat, but what I got was so much more, I got a memory and an experience that will forever raise my standard of a good haircut.

He moved quickly, not missing a beat. I should make something clear: my hair is thick and I mean THICK! I have gone to many barbers only to have their clippers jam up and watch panic set in on their faces. He never faltered though; not once did it seem that he wasn’t sure about what to do with the mess on my head.

First step was to make a dent, cutting down most of the excess and beginning to shape the final product. First with clippers, he moved around me and spun me in the chair, and his confidence seemed to put me at ease. I had no idea at this time whether or not I had conveyed to him what I was going for, but as soon as he began I knew he had understood. The commotion from outside faded away. Car horns and bicycle taxi bells faded away into soft music from a small radio and the hum of clippers.

Next he began to thin my hair with scissors, catching strays that the clippers had missed. Precise and deft, his hands moved like an artist’s or a surgeon’s and I was reminded of where the design for the classic barber’s pole came form. I figured I’d just call it good at the haircut, however: no need for some blood letting or some quick dentistry.

My haircut had taken shape and looked good. Still does if I do say so myself, but apparently I wasn’t done just yet.

I expected to be cleaned off, to pay and have the whole thing be over. That was until I saw him take out a disposable blade razor. “Here comes the bloodletting,” I thought. With swift jerks of the razor he began to shave the edges and contours of my hairline.

All the way around he was patient and gentle but deft in every movement, never nicking me once even as he reached a small breakout at the base of my neck.

He finished with some aftershave in an unmarked bottle, but the distinct smell of alcohol filled my nose, a light spray here and there to avoid any irritation.

After wetting my hair, he made another pass with the scissors; not a single stray hair would escape him. Once done, he grabbed a brush and covered it in what I am guessing was talcum powder to cut back on the greasiness of my hair.

At this moment I wasn’t sure what to expect; what other step could there be? I had already received more in this single haircut than I had in 25 years of getting haircuts in the States, and for a fraction of the cost. Surely there could be no more, that the ante couldn’t be raised any higher. Then he pulled out something more from his barber’s bag of tricks, an odd hand-held machine.

I only caught a glimpse of it until my head started vibrating, which brought back memories of long bus rides to school. I would lie back to get comfortable, leaning my head against the window. The vibrations of the bus would shake my inner ear. Vision blurred, and every nerve would shiver at once, and like a cold chill, there was this frustrated satisfaction.

So there I sat as he worked the vibrator/massager from the top of my head to the sides, then making his way down to my shoulders, giving me a massage. I think he even managed to work out knots I had developed throughout the day.

When everything was done he made me stand and brushed me off from head to toe, then   gestured for me to turn and made one more pass.

Tim offered to pay for the haircut (3 Cuc’s for the haircut and a generous 7-Cuc tip.)   “It was worth it just to watch,” he told me after.

I thanked the barber the best I could, but even with my praise for an excellent job and Tim’s tip, I still felt like it all fell short. Not being able to convey to him properly how much I appreciated his work was frustrating. I never expected anything like it.

In a small shop sporting two barber chairs, a big mirror and a wall full of photos of his customers, I learned there are people out there who still value their craft. It was nice to see there is still a place I can go to get the kind of experience my father talks about – something passionate, a display of skill that like many other things is being streamlined for the sake of efficiency.

As my hair starts to grow back out I don’t know what to do. I could just shave my head, but maybe I’ll leave it. I’ll save my money and if I’m able to return to Havana, the first thing I’ll do when I land is go see my new barber.