Barbershop Adventure

I cut my own hair sometimes. I figure why wait on an appointment, when I can handle it myself?! Sure it is near impossible to hold a mirror in one hand and clippers in the other while contorting your body for a better view, but I do it anyway. I can be pissed off and powerful, command the change I want to see in my hair in minutes, all with mixed results. The grip slips. A muscle twitches. A blade is held too close. One acquires an imperfect cut, but the scruffy excess length is gone, buying more days of tolerance.

But Friday I did something bold, and different. I walked into the spot I have known of for years but never before entered, the barbershop near campus, on a Friday and there are no appointments taken, only walk ins. I am 5th in line, not counting the brother in the chair. I have other things to do but determination kicks in and I decide to sit and wait. The mission: to undo the havoc I have wreaked upon my hair, which didn't really "grow out in a week".

A world of men cycling through a transformation before the weekend gets started. Several are former students of mine from various classes, only one other person has never been there before like me. He came with a friend. The crowd grows. Some walk out, only to lose their spot in the rotation of folks making their way in and out of the chair. Men come in a little rough on the edges, a bit unkempt then after some time under P's skillful hands they come out polished. Scraping out the features of their faces, with the subtle shaping of chops, the crisp line of a fade, the definition in a goattee that frames the chin, he sculpts them anew.

Fascinating.

The topic hovers around sports. And I am fairly disinterested in sports, and talk of sports, and the athletes that are involved in the sports everybody talks about. YAWN! But this was a study in masculine space in one of its purest forms, rooted in folks (predominately Black and folks of color) congregating. Which was probably why I stayed, even though I knew it would be well over an hour before I got in the chair. THIS is where we are! How could I walk out on a predominately Black hang out spot where folks were shooting the sh@$ while biding their time. And the satellite radio mix was playing an hour of straight Prince cuts, so I was in no hurry to leave. You know I love me some Prince. I felt like I was home, in the sense of home being wherever family happens to be at.

I didn't waste time being other than myself, but I was really flattered when the guys made it clear that they were on better behavior due to my presence. I assured them that I had seen and heard it all before, but they were totally respectful. Luckily the man-with-the-million and one-ways-to-fade remembered me from events on campus. Generally he doesn't cut women's hair except in a few scenarios- his wife, a sister on the b-ball team, and today me.

I assure him that I just want him to line me up and perhaps trim off some length on the top. Then I give him the space to do what he does for a living, he's the expert. With the lines of people waiting on his skill, and as a witness, I am a believer. More arrive while I am in the chair, so I am clearly not alone. I am the newcomer to this shop. A space tied to generations of tradition. A cool way to spend an afternoon, not to mention he did a fantastic job.