A few years back, I was on a group tour exploring new ‘lands’ when one of our tour leaders shared a neat little travel hack: he always made it a point to get his hair cut in every new city. He said it was a brilliant way to get a real feel for the local culture.

By stepping into a common, uniquely male experience, he found himself immersed in the culture he was exploring. I thought, “Now that’s a clever idea!” and now I’m doing it too. (Thanks, Spencer, you smart cookie from Book Bag Tours!).

So, this summer, during my holiday in Ireland, I had a grand vision of visiting a proper Dublin barber. I was looking forward to hearing the brogue of a traditional Irish haircutter.

I imagined tales of local lore, perhaps some political musings, and certainly a few tall tales. If I was lucky, maybe even a ghost story or a witty joke, with lively banter from other local patrons. I pictured a gray bearded Irish charmer, expertly shaping and sculpting my messy American haircut.

My imagination, I confess, had crafted a somewhat unrealistic cross between the barber Floyd on the old Andy Griffith Television show and a traditional Irish character from the John Wayne film ‘The Quiet Man.’

One lovely afternoon, after my wife and I had taken a train out to Howth, we decided to stop at a station on the way back into town. It was time for my very first Dublin barber experience. My hair had been tossed in the wind of Howth Harbour, and was needing trimmed before we first set foot in Ireland.

My expectations were quickly reset. My barber was Victor, a richly accented immigrant from Romania. I was the only customer in the shop. There was no Irish fiddle music playing, and no boisterous Irish tall tales or bawdy humor.

And yet, the experience was far from a disappointment. In fact, I learned a great deal about Irish culture, even if it was partly by re-evaluating my own American preconceptions. Victor explained that a traditional Irish barber was a rare find these days. He also shared that many skilled service occupations in Dublin are often filled by immigrants, a good number of whom, like himself, come from Eastern Europe.

When Victor asked about my preferred cut, I confidently told him I wanted to look like a rugged Trinity College footballer. Victor responded with a confused smile, admitting he had no idea what that meant. So, I settled for his standard short cut. Victor was skilled, but even he couldn’t work the miracle to turn me young and buff!

Though accented, Victor’s English language was excellent, with a very professional vocabulary. Victor’s English was equal to my own, and he allowed that he also spoke fluent Romanian and French. Either by education or by his own industry, he was a master of three language while I am capable in but one.

Victor was both competent and professional. He was sharply attired and truly a gentleman in address. He handled his razor and shears with extreme precision. I was clipped, sheared, brushed, and shaven with the most exacting standards.

The experience was excellent, and I left with a completely different understanding of this most common of masculine services than what I had expected. It led me to reflect on how many skilled service professionals in my own country are immigrants, and how these vital services—like barbers, nail technicians, and tattoo artists—provide an excellent way for newcomers to immediately contribute to the strength of the local economy.

A few days after my experience with Victor, my muse returned for a brief visit. While still in Ireland, I penned this short poem about my experience at the ‘The Grafton Barber.’

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The Grafton Barber

We’re awkward smiles, on midsummer day,
But under dull clouds, near Burgh Quay
To blur its greys with immigrant endeavor.
You combed my crown with silent skill—no chatter—
Save for a nod, a hum, a snip, a glance
That judged my hair with old-world elegance.

I’d hoped, I’ll say, for something quaint and Irish—
A brogue, a tale, a half-remembered ballad—
Instead, I found a man whose foreign hands
Had known more work than I had demands.
You held the shears as if it were paint brush
And shaped the sides with patience, never rush.

It struck me then—this wasn’t just a trim.
This was a rite, exacting and austere.
The art of sculpting manly from plain,
Stripping my shaggy mane I can feel no pain.
And still, you labored, bent like some priest
Anointing me with clippings, bit by bit,
As if to say, “here’s how we build our place—
With dignity, and scissors, and still grace”.

We did not speak of poetry, but still,
The room was full of rhythm, edge, and will.
The TV mumbled in an intrusive tongue,
Too wired to translate what news was spun.
Outside, the buses sighed into the mist.
Inside, the razor traced a whispered list
Of borders crossed, of regrets, exile’s lost—
Your unspoken tale of opportunities’ cost.

And when you swiveled the chair to reveal your work—
A simple mirror, nothing there to shirk—
I nodded, sheepish, caught without defense, 
 Freshly crowned in  sculpted substance.

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Surely, this American abroad had discovered something about the culture of Ireland. Perhaps too, I learned something about the value of immigration in my own country too.  Mostly I learned to just go with the flow, and let the natural happen. It is in observing the natural flow of a culture where the most enjoyment in travel resides.

Cheers from Dublin, nca