“What we do for you today?” asked the barber.
“Oh, just a good trim,” I replied. “I’m going on holiday.”
“Oh?” said the barber. “Where you go?”
“Italy.”
“Italy!” exclaimed the barber. “I from Italy! Where in Italy?”
“Rome.”
“Ah, Roma," he sighed wistfully, continuing my haircut.
“I have an audience with the Pope.”
“You see il Papa??” He turned and shouted upstairs, “Maria! Maria!”
“What?” replied an irritated voice from upstairs.
“Dissa gennelman he gonna see il Papa!”
“Ah,” replied his wife. “Dassa nice.”
The barber finished my haircut but refused to let me pay him, so I bade him farewell and left.
I bumped into him the following week, with what must have been his wife. I had tried to avoid him, but he saw me and ran over, beaming.
“Mister, mister! How wassa Roma?”
“Very nice, thank you.” I replied.
“And il Papa?”
“He was well.”
“Ah, you hear that, Maria? Il Papa is well... but ... mister, please tell me, watta he say to you?”
I hesitated… “He said 'My son', and then he lifted his hand up to my head..."
"Il Papa bless you??" asked the Italian excitedly.
"Not exactly, no," I replied. "He said, 'Tell me, where did you get that terrible haircut?'"
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