The Barbers of Palermo

22 January 1944

And so we came to Palermo. A crumbling, pink-and-white little town where they sell oranges and almonds and mandolins and guitars, and very little else. Such an insignificant little town that even Baedeker, who likes to linger over the quaint and unobtrusive, is impatient for once. “Notice the Church of St. Joseph. poss 18th-cent. Note also 17th-cent. Spanish Gate and modern citadel” he tells us curtly and whisks us away.

Unfortunately, war is no respecter of guidebooks. So we marched into the little town. And for quite a time we were so busy that we failed to notice the Church of St. Joseph. And we shall never know whether it was “poss” 18th-cent, because it interfered with the field of fire of a German 88mm battery, and now there’s just so much more crumbling pink-and-white brick.

But no one could fail to notice the “modern citadel” — which doesn’t look quite so modern these days. And when we had finished with it, and the whistle had blown for half-time, as it were, we were too tired and too depressingly frowsy to go sightseeing.

Then it was that somebody who had been on a cautious recce into the town proper came back with the incredible tale of the Four-and-twenty Barbers.

Unbelieving, we left our truck and sought out the Via Victor Emmanuel — the Piccadilly of the little town — upon which the dust was still settling. We rubbed our eyes (partly because of the dust). But there they were, all four-and-twenty barbers’ shops, and each and every one open — wide open — for business. And in each shattered doorway stood Signor Barbiere in his white coat and all, arms folded, comb and scissors poking out of his pocket very much at our service. A little white and shaken perhaps, the Signor. But barbers come of brave stock (was there not a Figaro Battalion, barbers every one, who fought so valiantly for Miaja and the Republic until the day that Madrid fell?) And after all this was not the first time that the barbers of the Little Town had come up out of their cellars to shave an invader.

And now of course, we are all firm friends, we and the Twenty-four. Though perhaps “friend” is hardly the word. We are “patrons”; they are “barbieri,” professional men, artists of the very highest order. We respect their finer feelings, we honour their craft. We would no more rush into Signor Guiseppe’s for a quick trim than we would walk in late on Kreisler or blow our nose when Cotton is putting.

One cannot, for instance, expect a shave from Signor Guiseppe before eleven o’clock. But at eleven o’clock precisely there is the Signor in his doorway, fresh-shaved, powdered, solemn. And there is the “piccolo,” the lather-boy, on his high stool in the corner. And there is the chromium aglitter and the marble bowl fresh-washed, the tiled floor speckless, the ashtrays clean and at your elbow (for the Signor is lax enough in this; he permits you to smoke.)

Many a weary regimental officer finds the half-hour in Guiseppe’s hands his one daily luxury. On the soft rubber cushion of Guiseppe’s amazing barber’s chair, which fairly bristles foot-pedals and adjustable head-rests, he can shut his eyes and relax.

In the Little Town there is no butter, no cheese, no eggs. There have been no cigarettes for four months. But on Guiseppe’s marble slab there is always a tiny phial of brilliantine, a pill-box of powder, a thimbleful of witch hazel.

And come what may, there will always be the four-and-twenty barbers.

This article first appeared in the Manchester Evening News in January 1944 – Jerry F
 

Reproduced with permission
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Jerry F 2024