I may be forced to turn in my Black card once someone reads this post, but here goes.
As a little boy growing up, one of my biggest fears was Dad driving me to the barbershop every Thursday after school for my weekly haircut. It wasn’t because of the scary hums of the clippers being so close to my ears, the itchiness on my neck from the paper neck strip and the residual hair that fell inside, or the Home Alone-like stings of the aftershave being splashed onto my shaved head. The embarrassing truth was I just didn’t feel comfortable being in a room with Black people.
Whenever I was around people of any race, I became confused about who I was, how should I act, and who these people were. Even though the Black barbershop was a place where people looked just like me, I never felt that I belonged with my own people.
But this is crazy. The barbershop is like a church where Black folk can get together and fellowship. They can talk about anything: relationships, sports, politics, music. It is their refuge from the harshness of the outside world. It is a place for them to be themselves and escape the whiteness they are forced to endure every day. Even a young Black introvert should feel comfortable being inside a barbershop. But I was in a class of my own.
During my youth, I never understood what it meant to be Black. I knew what color I was, obviously, but I never understood the hardships our people suffered, and the discrimination and injustices we have faced all over the world.
I never appreciated the achievements of our people or knew that we were never given proper recognition.
I never appreciated the struggles our ancestors and leaders endured to attain and maintain freedom.
I was blind to how we express unity and love.
All I knew was that being Black meant being loud, reckless, dirty, and evil. I was bullied and ridiculed by my people—kids and adults—for being quiet, something that was part of my personality, but it seemed to be frowned upon in the Black community. Because I didn’t have boundless confidence, a loud voice, or furious pride, I was—in a sense—cast out.
At the barber shop, I would sit with my dad and brother trapped in my thoughts while waiting for my turn to come. The three barbers never called me by my name. After my dad told them how to cut my hair, I would sit still feeling awkward, hoping not to be reminded that I was quiet, therefore different. While everyone was having a good time talking and laughing, I wanted nothing more than to go home and play with tree leaves. Don't ask.
Bad times don’t last forever. When I became a teenager, I began visiting a different barbershop and I was becoming more comfortable with myself and the people.
This was my chance for a do-over.
At the shop, I was talking more and laughing at their jokes. It wasn’t a community-knit place like one would see in the Barbershop movies, but the people were courteous and didn’t treat me like an outcast.
My new barber was T.C., a soft-spoken gentleman in his 50s who always asked me how I was doing in school, and I never minded telling him. In fact, I told him everything that was happening—the good and the bad—and he always offered advice instead of criticizing my actions. One valuable lesson he taught me was, if you don’t act like a stranger, you won’t be treated like a stranger. I lived by those words ever since. Coming to the shop was now something to look forward to. I learned a great deal about life and my barber was the best adult friend I had.
At age 17, I stopped going to the barbershop. Thanks to Snoop Doggy Dogg, the afro was back in style, so I grew my hair out and never cut it. It didn’t reach the high volume seen in most afro owners, but I still looked unique.
The main reason I stopped going to the barbershop was that my friend and main barber, T.C., moved to another state. I allowed others in the shop to cut my hair, not that I had a choice, but I never bonded with them as I bonded with T.C. I guess it was because we were both introverts.
I left my hair uncut for three years. Don’t worry, I did wash it regularly. As the afro era was coming to an end, I decided to purchase my own clippers and cut my own hair. Before I did so, I noticed several clustered bumps had appeared on the neckline at the back of my head—kind of like bunches of ingrown hair bumps. So my afro was gone and I was left with just a plain, ordinary haircut. This was the start of my barber career of which I was my only customer. I eventually got rid of the bumps, which may have appeared because I wasn’t giving my hair the proper love. Nevertheless, I was saving money. And as my hairline was receding and a bald spot was forming, I eventually joined the sexy bald men’s club.
As we are living in different times, the need for inclusion is more vital than ever. I believe that back when I was a child, a Black, quiet introvert boy was unheard of; therefore, even open-minded people could not comprehend this unusual behavior. Luckily today many people are willing to accept others that are different by their mental behavior, race, religion, or sexual preference. The Black-owned barbershops of today are no exception. They will accept anyone who is down, or in other words, a good person. They provide excellent service to the community by not just cutting hair, but by sponsoring events, donating to the needy, being big brothers and big sisters to children, and many more.
Since it has been more than 20 years since I last visited a barbershop, it may be time to time to make my big return very soon. Even after 20 years of practice, I am still terrible at trimming my mustache and beard.
Thank you for reading.
Comments