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It's just hair

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. "Can we get a cut?" I mustered. And then it was like the needle was returned to the record. Everything began playing again. The barber said "Sure. Just have a seat. I'll be right with you". And other barbers continued on with cutting hair. 

We looked like fools the three of us; sitting there waiting for a haircut in an all black barbershop. They were probably whispering and making jokes about us.  They probably wanted to drive us to Great Clips. They probably hated us.

One of the men motioned for my son to come sit. Holden explained how he wanted his hair cut. The barber chuckled and said "Show me the picture". Holden pulled out his phone and showed him. The man began to clip away at his hair but not without struggle. He paused and took a step back a few times, planning his next move. The barber next to him told me to have a seat on the bench so I could watch. A young black woman scooted over, greeted me and asked how I was.  

One of the barbers turned those tv's down.  

"Has anyone seen San Andres?" he asked. I asked him if that was the one with The Rock in it. I told him I didn't want to because I wasn't a fan of The Rock. The whole shop began to look at me and gasp. Another barber swept hair from the floor by my feet and said "I thought every woman love The Rock. Even my granny say 'oh he fine'". Even more laugher and smiles after that. He changed the channel to wrestling. They all began to talk about the wrestler being from Cincinnati. "He even look like he from Cincinnati" one guy said. They all erupted in laughter again. 

Our barber probably spent 45 minutes on  my son's $10 haircut.  He brushed my son's face and neck with powder.  He wanted to make sure it was perfect. I tipped him handsomely. 

When my son looked at the barber and said "It's perfect. I love it" the barber beamed. I looked at his station mirror. It was plastered with pictures of black loved ones, clients, and movie stars. We were the only white people in the room other than the TV reporter covering the shooting story. They didn't hate our whiteness. They didn't hate the fact that our skin color was the same as that which just murdered their skin color.  

They asked us to come again.  And we will.  
 
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