Nameless Barber Shops don't get any better than this..
As I roam through the quaint small village of Mondim de Basto, I notice an old barbershop, where an even older man bearing a white vest shaves in front of a broken mirror. The green leather of the vintage barber chairs is all but worn out, and the equally tiered barber brushes and soap bars are chaotically arranged on top a cabinet, which in its own fate is completely pierced by wood boring beetles.
The price list is a simple hand written paper amidst some shoe polish, the local football club badge and out of date perfumes. José (seems to the go to name for men in this region), simply points to the chair when I ask him for a trim. He is a man of few words, but assures me that his hands are as rock steady as when he opened the place 50 years ago. There is no name to the establishment “I could never be bothered to give it one” he says, in his heave northern accent. The blade is smooth and precise. A spotlessly clean while linen cloth emerges from the bottom drawer, which he soaks in diluted musk perfume to give job its final touch.