WHEN THE MONKEY APPEARS SILK, OLD STAYS

 WHEN THE MONKEY APPEARS SILK, OLD STAYS.

  A few days ago was  opened a barbershop, not a "Coifer" where you go to make a haircut and salts with shaved eyebrows and even turquoise-painted feet, for yes, it was a real barbershop as God intended, with a old seat, a single mirror in front and smell of cologne water as in the time of my glorious youth.

  I had seen in Punta Shopping old and young Argentines with modern military haircuts, that is, shaved at the sides and with a "hopo" on the crown of their head and I thought: if those old men do it, why not me?

   I did not want to feel out of "wave." So I went to the new barber shop where a 36-year-old man, shaved and wearing a cap tied with a ribbon, dozed on a worn sofa.I told him what court I wanted me to do but he told me very discreetly that I was too old for that fashion of kids. Ahh, I was forgetting, in front of the store you could read a sign with the prices, not cheap, and also said with letters imitating a graffiti: Cut to "I degraded". It had to be in French, not pure pure but to have a foreign wave to see that they made modern cuts and all that mess.

  I told him that I wanted a "degradé", that I would try it, because I felt young even though my jowls were hanging down to my chest. At my insistence, the barber explained that he would not be so radical in the cut and that the "hopo" was not going to be so abundant.-I have an abundant and beautiful hair- the barber coaxed me- but many gray hairs ...
   -No matter. From here I do not leave without a degradation even if I have to "ingratiate myself" -I answered with irony.

  He started the haircut. Tufts of it fell through the layer. Goodbye my hair, without you, I would not have conquered so many girls and mature women in my second youth.

  The barber finished. It was not what I wanted, plus machine cut 0 on the sides and then go up the sides until the team marked 4. When finished he showed me round mirror the back of the card. I try my face satisfaction. I paid him the high sum and went out into the street.

 Nobody seemed to notice the change. Afterwards I reflected that a modern haircut did not make me younger, but it enhanced even more my voluminous face that tends to fall down and forward due to the laws of physics and the lack of elasticity of the skin.

  Good. MONKEY ALTHOUGH YOU CHANGE THE LOOK, OLD YOU WILL BE THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.

THE SNOB: BOUTIQUE OF MEATS

THE SNOB. BOUTIQUES OF MEATS


   On his way to work the man passed by a restaurant - here in Buenos Aires they call it "Restó" - and he dreamed one day to eat that meat that only the Gods could taste.

  When he received his first salary he went in search of a barber but only found luminous signs that called the clients to cut their hair with a "Coifer". He, who came from the interior of a Caribbean country where the barber was called a barber and the local barbershop, was confused by these names.

  He was attended by a pretty girl who asked him what kind of haircut he wanted. When she saw the client doubtful, she looks him with so much attention and she brought a color catalog with young Westerners, beautiful and with different cuts.

   The man chose one that was fashionable in his country of origin and that at the same time allowed to open to the prevailing fashion around him.
  _ But where is the Coifer? - he asked.
  It was all in his right because he was the one who paid for the service.
   - Is not it something like a French or Belgian?
   -Do not. Sir, That's what they call now the unisex places where we cut the hair, mainly the wealthy women.
  -Proceed Girl. Proceed
  When the cut was finished she showed him the haircut in the mirror. He looked well and liked the result. He was already going to take the money out of his wallet when the girl told him:
  -Eyebrows. Eyebrows. Do not want to be waxed ?.
  The man felt that this was an attack on his manhood and he answered.
    -No lady. My eyebrows do not touch.
   - What a pity. So populated that you have them. The eyebrows are the frame of the face.
   - Sorry, miss, but that's for sissies.
     The man, almost offended, stood up, paying with his plastic card - he took it out of his pocket as if from his birth he only took out a platinum card from his pants - and retired.

   That night he dressed in a blue suit - the only one he had - secondhand and a red tie and finally set out to enjoy the boutique of meat that was only exported.

  Upon entering the "Resto" everyone was silent and looked at him. The waiter, smelling a good tip, rushed to get him a table with a good view. It seemed that the Duke of Holland or Prince Charles had entered. They both looked at him.

  Out of the corner of his eyes he studied the other diners. The blondes were dyed with long hair and as if they ended up leaving the pool or the beach. Dressed in white robes, they showed carefree until the birth of their thighs and their husbands or couples, in khaki shorts, were not far behind.

  He identified several languages, German, Brazilian and some Argentines. As the man remained silent he thought that he was being taken by a millionaire from Norway or Iceland. He started that disease called snobbery.

  When the waiter told him in a pure Argentine accent what he was going to drink, the man said:

  - Tell me the wine cellar you have?

   -Well ... uh ... uh ... Come here and I'll show you what your lordship chooses.

    The increasing discharge of snobbery ran through his whole body and he felt overwhelmed but at the same time happy.

    He led him to a drinks cabinet. There were beers of very Creole names like "Doña Pepita" "Escaramuza" "Toña"

  "Too vulgar," the man said to himself.

  And he saw a bottle that reminded him of a German name "st ..."

  He pointed with a finger and returned to his table. After a while the boy arrived with the bottle sweating from how cold it was. He served it in a large glass.

  The man tasted it slowly. It tasted like rays on his thorath. It was bitter and made of seawater. But he drank it without complaint as if he was already used to that brand.
  But the crisis of snobbery did not end.

  When it was the turn of the meat. The man was expecting a good barbecue wrapped in colored ribbons and a cap from the local football team. That's what he had dreamed and imagined.

   It was a simple big steak the size of the dish, with lettuce and tomatoes. Disillusioned the man swallowed all the flesh. It was juicy, tender and it seems that of cows raised in one laboratory.
       
  He ate without stirring, chewing with his mouth closed and peacefully. The others had long since stopped looking at him.

  When he finish. He ordered a drink and the waiter told him what was his taste. Seeing the customer doubtful, He took him back to the refreshment case. He saw the commons that were everywhere. Then he notice a brand that he had never drunk and that seemed bottled far but far away.

   -Give me that. The Schw ...

  Already at the table, great was his surprise to see that the soda was a simple lemonade with gas. The attack snobbishly deflated and he paid with all the rest of the month's salary that remained on the plastic card.

  When he returned home - the truth was that the steak was tasty and next to the copious salad.
   - I had my abdomen like a pump.
   He felt a gas struggling to get out and instead a stream of poop ran down his legs.

The man quietly went to where he lived, smelling unpleasantly and told himself:

 - "Simplicity. Simplicity. It's what makes a man happy "

EL ESNOB. BOUTIQUES DE CARNES

EL ESNOB. BOUTIQUES DE CARNES

   En su camino al trabajo el hombre pasaba frente a un restaurante- aquí en Buenos Aires le llaman “Restó”- y soñaba algún día comer aquella carne que solo los Dioses podían paladear.

  Cuando cobró su primer salario fue en busca de un barbero pero sólo encontraba letreros lumínicos que llamaban a los clientes a cortarse el cabello con un “Coifer”. Él, que procedía  montaña adentro de un país caribeño donde al barbero se le llamaba barbero y al local barbería, le confundían estos nombres.

  Lo atendió una linda chica que le preguntó cuál era el tipo de corte de pelo que deseaba. Al ver al cliente dudoso ante tanta atención le acercó un catálogo a color con jóvenes occidentales, hermosos y con diferentes cortes.

   El hombre eligió uno que estaba a la moda en su país de origen y que a la vez concedía abrirse a la moda reinante a su alrededor.

  _ ¿Pero dónde está el Coifer?- preguntó.

  Era todo su derecho pues él era quien pagaba el servicio.

   - ¿No es algo como un  francés o belga?

   -No. Señor, Así llaman ahora a los lugares unisex donde cortamos el cabello, principalmente a las mujeres adineradas.

  -Proceda. Chica. Proceda.

  Cuando el corte estuvo terminado le mostraron el corte de cabello en el espejo. Se miró bien y le gusto el resultado. Ya iba a  sacar el dinero de su cartera cuando la chica le dijo:

  -¡Las cejas. Las cejas. ¿No quiere que se la depile?.

  El hombre sintió que aquello era un atentado a su hombría y contestó.

    -No señorita. Mis cejas no se tocan.

   - Qué lástima. Tan pobladas que las tiene. Las cejas son el marco del rostro.

   - Lo siento señorita, pero eso es para maricas.

     El hombre, casi ofendido, se puso de pie, pago con su tarjeta ‘plástica- la sacó del bolsillo como si desde su nacimiento solo sacara tarjeta de platino del pantalón-y se retiró.

   Esa noche se vistió con un traje azul- el único que tenía-  de segunda mano y una corbata roja y se dispuso al fin a disfrutar de la boutique de carnes que solo se exportaban.

  Al entrar en el “Resto” todo el mundo hizo silencio y lo miraron´. El mozo, oliendo una buena propina se precipitó a buscarle una mesa con buena vista. Parecia que había entrado el Duque de Holanda o el Príncipe Carlos. Tanto lo miraban.

  Con el rabillo del ojo estudio a los demás comensales. Proliferaban las rubias teñidas con la cabellera larga y como si acabaran salir de la piscina o de la playa. Vestidas de túnicas blancas mostraban despreocupadas hasta el nacimiento de los muslos y sus esposos o parejas, en bermudas de caqui, no se quedaban atrás.

  Identificó varios idiomas, el alemán, el brasileño y algunos argentinos. Como el hombre permanecía callado pensó que lo tomaban por un millonario de Noruega o de Islandia. Le empezó esa enfermedad que se llama esnobismo.

  Cuando el mozo le dijo en puro acento argentino qué iba a beber, el hombre le dijo:

  -¿Dígame la cava de bebidas que tienen?

   -Bueno… eh… eh… Venga por aquí y le muestro para que su señoría escoja.

    La creciente descarga de esnobismo le recorrió todo el cuerpo y se sintió abrumado pero a la vez alegre.

    Lo condujo a una vitrina de bebidas. Habían cervezas de nombres muy criollos como “Doña Pepita” “Escaramuza” “Toña”

  -Demasiado vulgares- se dijo el hombre para sus adentros.

  Y vio una botella que le recordaba un nombre alemán “st…”

  La señalo con un dedo y volvió a su mesa. Al rato llegó el mozo con la botella sudando de lo fría que estaba. Se la sirvió en una copa grande.

  El hombre la degusto lentamente. Sabía a rayos. Era amarga y como hecha de agua de mar. Pero la bebió sin queja como si ya estuviera acostumbrado a esa marca.

  Pero la crisis de esnobismo no terminaba.

  Cuando llegó el turno de la carne. El hombre esperaba  un buen churrasco envuelto en cintas de colores y con un gorrito del equipo de fútbol local. Así lo había soñado e imaginado.

   Era un simple churrasco del tamaño del plato, con lechuga y tomates. Desilusionado el hombre engulló toda la carne. Era jugosa, tierna y parece que de vacas criadas en laboratorio.   

         

  Comió sin agitarse, masticando con la boca cerrada y apaciblemente. Los demás hacía rato que habían dejado de mirarlo.

  Cuando terminó. Pidió un refresco y el mozo le dijo que cuál era de su gusto. Al ver dudoso al cliente lo llevo de vuelta a la vitrina de refresco. Vio los comunes que estaban en todas partes. Entonces noto una marca que nunca había bebido y que parecia embotellada lejos pero muy lejos.

   -Deme esa. La Schw…

  Ya en la mesa, grande fue su sorpresa al ver que el refresco era una simple limonada con gas. Se desinfló el ataque esnobismo y pagó con todo el resto del salario del mes que le quedaba en la tarjeta plástica.

  Al volver a casa- la verdad que el churrasco estaba sabroso y junto a la copiosa ensalada- tenía el abdomen como una bomba. Sintió un gas que pugnaba por salir y en su lugar un chorro de caca le corrió por las piernas.

  El hombro tranquilamente se dirigió a donde vivía, oliendo desagradablemente y se dijo:

   -“Simplicidad. Simplicidad. Es lo que hace  a un hombre feliz”