Barber's Song
I have a few vivid memories of my childhood. But one thing that impressed me was the Saturday afternoon the barber. Twenty years less. My little hand into that of father. The strong scent of almonds and sweet. And then, once entered the hall, the scent of hair. So strong and so particular. And Enzo, my barber, who asked me how every time they want those facts and blond hair, as if they knew that every time my answer was always the same: "A Carre." Word that even now I can not identify ... Who knows what it means? And the radio turned to a volume that did not quite annoying. The hands of Enzo that I wet my head, my father sat to read or look at me, other customers on chairs to wait a beard made good. Someone could even smoke a cigar while the Enzo meticulously followed the lines of tion with the razor. The songs by Barber, those would remind me ... De Andrè, Battiato, De Gregori, Battisti. Always and only Italian music. I remember once, a fast passage of the finger of Enzo selector on the radio station we propose a short interval of foreign music. At that time I did not know who it was that band. Li would have known and appreciated a few years later. The song was "Where The Streets Have No Name." I do not think we need to reveal the name of the band.
