Barbershop

“It’s time to get okay with being alone.”

…

I looked in the mirror about a week ago and saw my ginger hair slowly dying and being replaced by the black I know all too well. I deemed the length between hair appointments to be a little too far. Which is how I’m seeing everything lately, a little too far. My roots, too far; my paranoia, too far; my rotting, too far. Everything needs to change, and of course, you always start with the hair. I go to miss [Redacted] off Tyler, I’ve been going to her since I was ye big and she always passively regarded me as I was always awkward and avoided eye contact and, well, lets just say there has never been a whole lot to admire. But, I’ve grown up, I take care of myself, and I am no longer the shy little girl who can’t speak without shaking, and can’t get a point across without stuttering. So, she still passively regards me, and I don’t care very much because, well, I’d just like my roots touched up, and its a specific color, and the charge is only $70. So I sit with one earbud in, and it’s awkward every time, and every time I say I will never come back. I’m always back in a months time.

This time though, I sat in another lady’s chair. She loved me right away. She asked me my name, and said she remembers when I used to come in with my mom when I was 10 and got a silk press and hated when they bumped my ends. She was surprised by how much I grew, and my head is on straight, and I have a different air about me. She started talking to me about life. She grew up in Compton and was reserved, like me, she said, and her younger sister was heavily into gang banging, people would come to her door while she was raising her mom’s kids and she’d say she hadn’t seen her in days. Her older sister never liked her as she was lighter than her and her dad was a cheater but she’s learned to forgive him because she figures, that’s what God would want her to do, and God’s her father now. She doesn’t like her mother either, and so [Redacted] and her family have kind of taken her on. I asked why she feels she doesn’t get along with her family. She said she’s simply not willing to bend herself to fit. She talked about how she loves her son, but she’s disappointed. She said she moved out of Compton to here so he could have a better life; less loud, less gray, less slip. Though, now he’s lost. He can’t find the love for his people, and by association, himself. Black women are “too much” Black women are “too loud” Black women are “not desirable” but she said it’s simply because Black women ask questions, Black women aren’t stupid, Black women want to know “where the love’s going.” And I said “yes” and I nodded instead of subjecting her to one of my lengthy lectures about Black women being the bearers, being the best and working twice as hard only to consistently get the short end of the stick. The funny thing is if this lady’s son were to see an attractive Black woman, he’d want her, but talking to her he’d realize she comes with rules and questions. And Black men don’t like rules. No man likes questions. And so, just as the lady said, “it’s time to get okay with being alone.”

She asked me what I was in school for, I told her I’m an English major who will be and English professor at a university and hopefully an author, and hopefully I will be listened to because, well, frankly I have way too much to say to be disregarded. I told her I’m San Francisco bound, as I can’t stay here for much longer. She said she understands. She said to just not get into a relationship until I’m at that professor desk and have a novel or two out, because all that love for literature will end up going up to the man’s love of mechanics. I don’t know that I agree with that sentiment, as I am as passionate as they make them, but I’m only small, and she has lived, so I nod. She said it’s okay to love, because that’s not something you can control. But you can control everything else.

After the root touch up, she went over to [Redacted] and said, “what a gorgeous girl, did you know she’s going to San Francisco?” [Redacted] glazed over her comment, “that’s Louise’s granddaughter.”

Then came in a bald Black man with irritation and baggy clothes complaining of his child who had him waiting outside his school for thirty minutes before he finally drove off and said for him to “figure it out.” Everyone, including me gasped. “Thirty minutes?! In my day it’d only take three for my ma to walk in there screamin’ and throwin’ a fit.” I said my mom would’ve left after 10. [Redacted] said her mom would tear her ass up. “More like - what’d they use to say? - Oh! Yes! Slipin’ Slidin’ Am’blance Ridin!” Everyone laughed.

I was looking out the window while my roots were marinating, attempting to ignore the crunching sounds of them eating tortilla chips and guacamole, and instead thought about their lives. Is it a life of lull’s or simplicity? What’s the difference? Is one even different than the other? When every day looks the same, can that be enough? They’ve been in this shop, with the same hours, same people, for well over twenty years. Is the lull comforting? Does routine negate stress? It certainly doesn’t for me, but I’m me and they’re them, and I guess that makes a perpetual world of difference.

Now [Redacted] son was giving his friend a line up, and they were talking about going to a game out of town, and staying in the Hard Rock hotel, because it has a club, and well, to people, that’s fun. However, [Redacted] was saying how racist Hard Rock was, at least the one she was at, anyways. She said she walked in there with a friend, and everyone immediately went silent and got to looking at them. No expression. And that’s how you can tell when a white mans racism is truly dangerous, when they get to staring with no expression. Then, they shifted to the most racist places they’ve ever been to. In Tennessee, they just stayed home because they didn’t want to find out, but in Georgia, they found out. White men asking what brings their “nigger asses” through this part of town. Ah, the Earth will never fully heal. Ah, we’ll never be truly free.

[Redacted] sat me down after my blow dry to straighten my hair. She seemed sour, saying my hair was in horrible shape, I don’t come enough in between appointments, what shampoo and conditioner I use, etc. She asked what part I wanted, I said a middle one, she said a middle part is bad because it shows face asymmetry. I told her to give me a side part then, she said no. She complained about the state of my hair the entire time, saying that I, essentially, need to get it together. Though, last time I came in she was talking about how healthy it was and I’ve had it in braids since then. The other lady had left thirty minutes ago, chanting “go San Francisco, go!” on her way out the door, and now it was just me, [Redacted] her son, and a whole lotta’ crickets. I had been in there for three hours for a root touch up and it was only me and one other lady in the shop. I was irritated, hungry, and stiff. After she straightened my hair, I said thank you, then she proceeded to put curls in my hair; there’s truly no stopping a hairstylist.

And then, well, I left her a twenty dollar tip, walked out, depleted of energy, said I was “never going back” and got in my car.