Happy Sábado ☕
Today we are in Guadalajara, Mexico.
We are squeezed into the corner of a little peluquería, the kind with one chair and an old fan. A mom just walked in with her teenage son.
The barber has cut hair on this street for thirty years. And he is about to notice something about this kid.
Watch him.
THE SCENE 🖼️
Don Beto: ¿Este es el chamaco de Rafa? Ya está grandote.
Is this Rafa's boy? He got big.
Marisol: Ándale. Diego. Ya tiene quince.
That's right. Diego. He's fifteen now.
Don Beto did not ask the kid's name first. He asked whose kid he is. In Mexico, that is how you place someone. You belong to a family before you belong to yourself.
Don Beto: A ver, Diego. Súbete. ¿Cómo lo quieres?
Alright, Diego. Hop up. How do you want it?
Diego: Igualito que siempre. Cortito de los lados.
Same as always. Short on the sides.
Watch how the kid answers. No hello. Just the order, quick and sure. He knows exactly what he wants.
Don Beto: Órale. Igual que tu papá. Él también entraba así.
Ha. Just like your dad. He came in the same way.
Marisol: No lo consientas, Beto. Ya está bien mandón.
Don't spoil him, Beto. He's bossy enough.
She is smiling when she says this. "Mandón" out of a mom's mouth here is half a complaint and half a brag.
Don Beto: Déjalo. Rafa se sentaba igualito. Bien derecho.
Leave him. Rafa sat the exact same way. Real straight.
Diego: No me despeine mucho arriba, don Beto.
Don't mess up the top too much, Don Beto.
Don Beto: Ay, Marisol. De tal palo, tal astilla.
Oh, Marisol. Chip off the old block.
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