As I walked down a narrow road, an old man in dress pants and a loose linen shirt stood up and pointed at me. He ran his other hand through his hair and made a scissors motion.
I walked over and looked into the doorway of his barbershop. The air was rich with jazz, laughter and quick sharp scissors.
The long narrow shop had a mirror running the entire length of the right wall, and a line of a dozen chairs bolted into the ground, each occupied.
The man out front winked and smiled and said “best haircut in Havana.”