Cut It. I Won’t Cry. Or how one evening adventure can last for years.

When I moved to Lisbon at some point, I felt like a soldier on a mission. Besides the exciting feeling of novelty offering unlimited possibilities to rewrite my entire life, I felt like I had to cut every excessive piece of my personality. Starting with hair.

It’s probably excellent reviews on Facebook that convinced me to make a 40 minute way to get to a typical barbershop. I rushed into a tiny space. A mix of masculine odors struck my nose. Cologne and hair gel mixed with the spring heat. If you can imagine the diversity of ethnicities in one place, it was there. At the time I couldn’t tell the difference. I felt like an alien who accidentally opened the random door and got into a world where everybody had a skin twenty shades darker. I felt their curious stares.

I was staring back at the line of customers waiting their turn on the sofa. Someone invited me to sit down. Shortly, the noise of trimmers set back the usual ambiance. Then entered a tall black guy, this everybody’s friend type. He came from Brazil and no matter the same language, in the beginning, he didn’t understand what Portuguese people were saying. I told him, “Me neither”, and we laughed.

There were three barbers hustling around massive chairs in cracked black leather. My attention grabbed an Asian guy. Short, but well-built. Smooth olive skin. Very focused handsome face. To my delight, he was the one who invited me to his chair.

“Aren’t you gonna cry?”. He was unsure if I really meant shaving my hair short. I really did. It was the opposite of what a Nepalese man considered beautiful.

“You look younger now.” He didn’t expect I was 36. “Okay. Now you look like 16.”

I was delighted with my soldier's look. Once a month we had small talks while he was shaving my hair. I enjoyed watching his face. He was 27. Funny, in his way. Later he will tell he opened this barbershop four years ago, he supports his mother and brother who live in Nepal, and wants to reunite with the family here in Lisbon.

A weird old dude waved us from the street, he nodded him smiling. “This man has expired.” - he told turning back to me. He greeted a weirdo when he came in. “See, people have an expiration date. When you get older, you can become like this.”

Never know what’s behind this Nepalese politeness. After two years, I still have very little idea of what he thinks of me.

There is a peculiar charm in observing beautiful with no possession to own it. To me, he was a random conversation once a month. I didn’t expect him to answer my Instagram story where I asked if anybody wanted to join me to go to the cinema.

No surprise there is very little about him in this story. I was too intimidated and distressed to explore anyone’s other personality.

It’s been fifteen minutes since the beginning of the movie when I dashed towards him. “All good”. This restraint politeness. We make our way to the seats in the flickering darkness of the movie hall. And before I can understand something, he kisses me. A long kiss. Then once more. Then again. This 16-year-old girl at the date feeling. After, he talks me into coming over to his place. “We talk a bit and I’ll call you an Uber”. When I leave in the morning, I think if I should change a barber now. In the evening, he asks me how my day was. I think it’s a fun adventure. Easy to cut when you meet someone special.

I still know very little of him. I hate when he disappears with no notice. I freak out. It’s impossible to make a huge argument with him. “Don’t scream. We talk about it tomorrow”. No, we are not gonna talk. Tomorrow or any other day. It takes him a few months to talk me into meeting him again. Then the cycle is to be repeated. Every time it feels like I can cut it without regrets.

“I would like to keep my freedom,” told to my wannabe boyfriend means I want to keep sneaking into my secret adventure’s bedroom.

“I had three girlfriends meantime. All gone. Wanna focus on myself now”. It’s not that I’m interested in this part of his social life. No jealousy. We can cut it with no regrets. It’s just funny how a one evening adventure can stretch into years.

A new round of “leave me alone”. I really mean it this time. Zero chances for reconciliation. Cut to we are hugging by the river on a winter night. An hour before the curfew. He shares his story. On finishing school at 15. On how to be a manager at the age of 16 when people call him “sir”. And how moving to Europe with 300 euros cash in his pocket completely changes his social status. It’s a story for another day though.

After several boyfriends, and several “let’s stay friends” rounds, I asked him about that first night out at the cinema. I didn’t expect him to kiss me straightway.

“That’s what you do with a girl. You go to the movie. You kiss.”