By random chance, and likely by downturn of economy, my usual hair salon was closed when I checked on it last Saturday. This is rather inconvenient, as it’s a good twenty minutes’ walk from work or home and now only open during a tight slice of my working hours. Instead of trying to cram a trim into the hectic tempest that is my average working day, I instead decided to brave the tiny rakarastofa - traditional barber shop - located just two doors down from my apartment.

I’d avoided this place prior for a couple reasons; chief among them, it’s a seriously old-school barbershop. The sort you see in old films, with the heavy leather-cushioned iron chairs, razor strops hanging from the wall and a weathered barber’s pole hanging outside. It also has a pedigree as one of the neighborhood’s fixtures; it’s been in business essentially throughout the living memory of all whom I’ve spoken with.

As I’ve got rather thick, stiff hair, I tended to prefer Asian salons in San Francisco; they were familiar with the consistency of my mane and tended to do a great job for rather little money. Your average Icelander has soft, downy hair that requires the application of Dark Matter to do more than droop. I was, therefore, afraid of the potential expense for an artisan ‘do that wouldn’t suit my particular type of hair.

Also, being an ancient Icelandic establishment, I foolishly doubted the proprietor’s ability to speak English.

Turns out I had absolutely nothing to worry about. The gentleman on duty in the murky gloom of Reykjavík’s January at 9 AM had a fine command of the language, but moreover, he was enthusiastic in trying to speak with me in his native tongue. It was my first real Icelandic linguistics workout since I’ve started learning, and we were able to communicate fairly well after I asked him to speak slowly and clearly for me.

Of further surprise was that this was a serious business type of barbershop. Entering it and having a cut - mind you, one of the best I’ve had, ever - was like stepping right into TVLand’s Fifties. I’ve been searching all over Iceland for proper men’s grooming supplies. Most places either sell overpriced designer crap or worthlessly cheap mass-market product. This tiny little establishment, just next door to my home, stocks real double-edged safety razors, several types of blades, a bewildering variety of shaving brushes and an utterly unbelievable array of traditional aftershaves and colognes. Plus all the accessories needed to operate the above properly.

Having already purchased an entry-level pure-badger brush during my initial quest, I picked out a beautiful golden-brass DE razor and some blades. I’m thinking I’ll check out their selection of proper soaps and colognes next; my current soap is only marginal for a proper wet-shave.