My son, Holden, wanted rid of his prohibition haircut. We were in Cincinnati's Clifton neighborhood. It was late. The salons were closed. I knew there was a small barber shop a few blocks down the street so my daughter, son and I set out to find it. It was still open. We walked inside to find three black men cutting three black men's hair. There were two tv's blaring the Emanuel AME church massacre. There were three black men, staring at us, with electric razors suddenly paused in mid air. It was like we were a record on a player and someone had just lifted the needle. We didn't belong and I recognized that right away. I wanted to turn Holden by his shoulders straight back out the way we came but that thought was interrupted by one of the barbers. "Can I help you?" he said. I tried to think up a lie. Ask where the nearest ATM is, ask if they had seen my lost puppy, ask if they could give me directions to the nearest white place. But I didn't lie. "