I Went Looking for a Country Store and Found a Barbershop

I walked the streets of Cachoeira looking for one of those old country stores that have disappeared from the world, surviving only in memory.

Places where you could buy just about anything by the pound, wrapped in green or pink paper and tied with twine. Back then, trust was all you needed. The flour sack stood open, matches sat next to the soap, guava paste shared shelf space with bird feed, and the flyswatter held court beside the requeijão.

My grandfather had one of those gems on his farm. It was called Jojó, the name of both the man and his store. My father and uncles were regular customers. I was really only interested in riding horses, but we had an account at the store. Everyone could take whatever they wanted, as long as they let old Jojó know. He was a man of few words and unfailing honesty.

The metal Brahma beer chairs were reserved for the ranchers. The villagers sat on tomato crates, and nobody seemed to mind. Jojó sold meat, school supplies, and pretty much everything a simple life called for. He slaughtered cattle and pigs. I often saw the animals still grunting as they were skinned after being killed. As a child, I took those scenes for just another part of the weekly routine. Today, I understand that such roughness existed alongside a dignity no book could teach.

I searched Cachoeira for a store like that and came up empty-handed. Instead, I found a barbershop. Dark, understated, and beautiful. A place where men get their hair cut and talk about life, dressing up the truth with a little exaggeration and sharing their lies in good company.

I don’t know when life decided it needed so much makeup. I only know that I’ve always found flaws more beautiful than manufactured perfection.

I miss you, Jojó.

As for my old man, I’ll leave that subject alone. Some memories are best kept in prayer and silence.