Haircut in the Stuy

I got my first haircut since I sheared it down in March a few weeks ago. I went to the same place where I had it done the first time, and the same guy did it again. He seemed like he knew what he was doing--hell, he's the expert--and he trimmed it and made it seem like I paid a small fortune for a hair-do. Really, I just wanted it shorter, much shorter than he left it. I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt. But I didn't want it ploofy and curly like it was.

A few days afterward, Idecided I wanted something closer to what I originally wanted, and for the first time since moving to Brooklyn, I wandered bravely into one of the barbershops on Malcolm X Blvd.

Barbershops in the black community occupy an important place: they're meeting grounds for young men (as long as they're not the "salons") where the posturing, drinking, and undermining confidences is low. I'd wanted to go to one ever since we moved here just to gauge their reaction, but I always deferred to my sense of decency, as a move like that might be seen as patronizing, even if they'd laugh about it later.

I was there before the afternoon rush, and the barbershop was empty save for two barbers, one in his late forties or early fifties, and the other much older. The moment I walked in, they just laughed sardonically while shaking their heads. Then the older gentleman beckoned me to a chair, and I told them I'd have to run home for my money. I expect they didn't expect to see me ever again.

But they surely did, three minutes later. The older gentleman sat me down and took a few minutes short of an entire hour to shear my hair down, alternating between electric shears and scissors. He did a good job; it was much closer to what I wanted the first time a few days before in Manhattan. As he worked, the shop started to fill up. The young men might have noticed me, a young-ish white boy, but paid me no mind...their daughters and/or little sisters, who had also started to file in and figit while they waited, had a hard time not staring.

The older gentleman who cut my hair told me that it had definitley been a long time since he'd cut any white-man's hair, and that back then, he'd had little choice as to whose or how hair was to be cut. Times have changed, alright.

I got my hair cut on Malcolm X Blvd in the Stuy. Whatta world.