One of the unexpected delights of living in New York: the opportunity to have my hair cut by people who don’t speak my language.

I’m not exactly sure how I got into the habit. My first few haircuts in the city were done, even if they were foreigners, by people who spoke English. Soon, though, I began frequenting Spanish barbershops, an experience that always includes a certain amount of apprehension. Each time I go to the shop, we carry on this mime routine, in which the barber waves at my head and says something in Spanish, I wave back and say something in English, and then he does whatever the heck he wants. Two haircuts ago I walked out looking radically different than when I went in. Last time, I got my beard trimmed — and yes, I was a bit nervous when we finished the waving routine and he pulled out a straight razor. I thought for a moment I’d insulted his mother or something.

Of course, not being able to speak with my hair cutter does allow me to skip the part of the barbering experience I loathe the most: having to carry on a banal conversation when I just want shorter hair. I mean, it’s not like I have somebody who’s “my barber”; I’ve rarely see the same person twice in a row — which is good, because I’m certain all conversational possibilities have been exhausted once the first cutting is halfway completed. And not being able to communicate exactly what I’m looking for in a haircut hasn’t seemed to change the process at all. I’m still getting whatever the scissor guy was planning on doing.

The problem now is I’m beginning to pick up a little bit of Spanish. If the day comes when I understand what the barber’s asking when he waves at my head, I’m going to have to leave. I hear there’s a group of Russian barbers downtown …