don't tell my mom

It could not be that long.

Since I had my last haircut.

I remember having thought about getting one before I went to Disneyland for a friend's wedding. And when I flew north for my aunt's  memorial service. And when I went to appearance-obsessed San Miguel de Allende for the chamber music festival.

But that would have been March, May, and August. How would that be possible?

A swift look at Quicken told me the news. It really had been six months since my last haircut. 17 March -- to be exact.

I knew my hair had grown out of control when my neighbors and the San Patricio postmaster told me I looked like Donald Trump.That, at least was an  improvement over what my law school classmates called me when my hair grew unruly. They said I was a doppelganger for Charles Laughton.

I must have looked surprised each time the Trump comparison was made because, without missing a beat, my Mexican neighbors would add a defensive coda: "But, I like Trump." With an additional caveat:"He is a strong leader. Just like AMLO."

Now, I do not know if that was the Mexican avoidance of confrontation boiling to a masked surface. But, even though I was more surprised than offended, I do not want to look like The Donald. How about Brad Pitt? Or, with my recent weight loss, I would settle for David Niven. But, it was obvious the time had come to seek out a Delila.

While I was in San Miguel de Allende last month, the hills and cobblestones there managed to shake loose every bolt in my SUV. An oil tanker would have had more responsive steering than my Escape when I returned to Barra de Navidad.

So, off to the Ford dealer I took it this morning. That shop has one of the least efficient front desks I have ever encountered. And I have been in a lot of repair shops over the past five decades.

Once my car enters the garage portal, I will not see it until the end of the day. Or, as once happened, for two weeks. So, I knew I had plenty of time to walk the streets of Manzanillo on my 15-mile daily quest. And to get a haircut.

Manzanillo's upscale shopping mall (Punto Bahia) has a barber shop. And, as you would expect in an upscale center, the barber shop has an upscale name. Man Harbor.

I kid you not. A barber shop that sounds like a San Francisco bathhouse. With a name like that, you know your hair will not be cut by some guy named Red or Butch.

And I was correct. It was Dante (you know, like the Italian poet) who was to tame my mane.

The shop looked as if it could be an annex of Brook's. I almost expected one of the cutters to ask if I would like a gin and tonic while I read The Telegraph.

But, like most snarky first impressions, mine was wrong. The place proved to be just as down home as Bob's Barber Shop in Oak Grove.

Even though Dante was born and grew up in Manzanillo, he had just returned from living the past couple of years in Chile. We swapped South America tales -- especially about food. He did not like Chile's. We both liked Peru's.

The young receptionist joined in when she found out I had not been to a barber for six months. I do not need to get a lecture from my mother because the receptionist has already ticked that box. In full chide mode.

My conversation with her (and with Dante) was entirely in Spanish. And, no, I did not understand every word, But I understood every thought. And that felt good.

What felt even better is that I translated for another customer sitting in the barber chair next to mine -- a young sailor from India whose curly locks were baffling the other cutter. I almost felt as if I was starting to belong in Mexico.

Other people have said it better (and certainly more often) -- that it is impossible to fully enjoy Mexico without a smattering of Spanish. The more the better. Not learning Spanish is like eating the peel of an apple, throwing the rest away, and then claiming to know all about apples.

Translating may have made me feel even better, but what made me feel best was a compliment from the receptionist who shifted from style critic to sycophant without breaking a sweat. When Dante had completed his scissor cut, she smiled at me and told me I looked far better. "Just like James Bond."

That caught me off guard. She thinks I look like Sean Connery? That would be a first.

Then, I took the generation gap into account. I asked if she meant Daniel Craig. She responded: "That's him. Yes." She, of course, was certifiably mad with that comment. But, take that, Donald Trump.

And all of this entertainment cost me a mere $150 (Mx) -- or about $8 (US). A stylish cut and witty banter. The amount was about three times higher than what I pay in San Patricio. But both the trim and the conversation were a cut above.

The next time I need to have my hair cut, the Man Harbor will be high on my list. And it will not take another six months.

Who knows? By then, I might look like Donald Sutherland.