A haircut

“Hello, sir. How are you doing?” The male voice was friendly, but with a professional touch. Nonetheless, it did not sound fake.

“I’m doing great. How are you doing?” I replied without looking at the barber, went straight to the small white board hung on the wall to my left, and wrote my name on it. Above my name, there were 3 other names. Two were crossed, and the uncrossed one was “Mike.”

I sat down on the black sofa next near the board. Picking sofas is an art. Sofas are supposed to be comfortable, and comfort helps win trust more quickly. I trust people who possess good sofas. Thus, I trusted this place, because it had good sofas.

In front of the black sofa I was sitting on was the door. Next to the door were two other sofas, a brown one and a black one. The brown one looked more majestic. A white old man in blue shirt, jeans and blue trainer shoes was sitting there. His hair was white and combed backward. He seemed a little bit uncomfortable; his eyebrows knitted together. I guessed his name was “Mike.”

To my left were two hydraulic barber chairs. Both were occupied by two white guys around my age. Two barbers, a man and a woman, were cutting. Three months ago, the man, who was also the owner, cut my hair. The woman might be a new hire. She dressed all in black and had very curly hair. From her dark complexion, I guessed she was of Hispanic descent. The owner, S., a guy maybe in his 40s, had big belly and wore a red short-sleeve shirt, jeans and thin-frame glasses. I knew his name because it was also the name of the barber shop.

The owner had some humor. A big white poster was hung on the wall, showing the prices. A haircut cost $30. Other related services cost from $25-$40. At the end of the list was “Bad Advice”, which was listed “Free.” Near the menu was a warning sign that said, “Unattended children will be sold.”

The whole shop was decorated with a car theme. Not new cars, but those in the 50s and 60s. American brands. On the table were some car magazines. I read a few pages and studied a few listings. Some old cars cost only a few hundred bucks. But some cost about $10k. To some extent, age correlates with fineness or beauty. For the owner of this shop, it’s cars. For some, it’s wine. For me, it’s 60s and 70s music. For the current president of France, it’s his wife.

The customer to whom the owner had been tending stood up, paid and left.

“I’ll get ready for you in a few minutes, Mike.” S. slowly but carefully swept the floor, collected the hair, and put it in the trash bin. Then he walked to the sink, got some washing gel, each of his hand gently massaging the other under running water. He did not seem to be in a hurry.

“My wife wants to make sure I get a nice haircut.” Old man Mike said.

“You’ve come to the right place, sir.” S. assured.

The female barber glanced at S. and Mike and smiled. Then she gave her customer the mirror. The guy, a red head, pondered for a while. He pointed at a point on his head and asked if she could cut it shorter.

“No problem, sir. I can do that.” The female barber replied. She had a light accent.

“Now that looks great.” The red head guy stood up and paid. “Keep the change.”

“Thank you, sir. That’s so kind of you.” From her expression, I guessed she was used to receiving tips.

“I’ll get ready in a few minutes. Thank you for waiting.”

“No problem.” I tried to finish a few paragraphs of the novel I was bringing, but tempted to look at her, to see how she was getting ready.

I thought about my father. What would he do if he were here? He was the kind of customer who allowed only the owner to touch his hair. If I brought him here, he would not sit on the chair unless S. cut for him. I would dig a hole and jump down there if possible.

Just like S., the female barber slowly but carefully swept the floor, collecting every single red hairpiece and putting it to the trash bin. Then she washed her hands in movements that were identical to those of S. earlier. And she did not seem to be in a hurry as well. It was like the whole cleaning/getting-ready process was standardized. These movements felt like music, so rhythmic, so effortless, so mindful, so meditative.

“What do you want today, sir?”

“Just a normal haircut.”

“How short it would be?”

“Hmm, I am not really sure. I don’t bring my phone with me, so I cannot show you the picture of how short I want.”

“Maybe we will start with a number 4. After that, if you want it shorter, I can do that.”

I had no idea what a 4 was, so I just nodded. She put a paper ring around my neck and wrapped the cutting cape around my body.

I did not know what to say to my barber. Somehow, barbers had this weird power over me. Once I sat on the chair, I relinquished all my opinions and autonomy. They became my masters. They did whatever they wanted to my hair, and I would not say a thing. Something was holding me back. I was too afraid to say anything, an irrational fear, given that it was my hair and I paid for the cut. Next to me, Mike and S. was talking about Medicare and glasses. Mike said his glasses cost around $350 without Medicare. S. said he bought his glasses online for just $31. Then S. and Mike discussed the style Mike wanted. The old man gave instructions in great details. Oh well, Mike had decades of experience regarding going to barber shop. He knew how to speak truth to power.

I looked at the menu again. Bad advice for free. Well, if that is the case, then self-help books should be free. Why? Because they are essentially bad advice. How can you expect that the self-help author, who knows nothing about you, can solve your problem?

Quite a few pieces of my hair were already on the cape. I picked up a few and examined them closely. They were black and wet and sticking together. Like some kind of carbon cable. Well, that’s not a wrong description. Something about this blackness sucked my attention.

“That’s all your hair.” She smiled. Maybe she thought I was trying to figure out whose hair it was. She wanted to assure me that this barber shop was a clean place.

“Ah, I’m just thinking about the color. When I got a haircut in my country, I only saw black hair. Here, there are so many different colors. And also, different textures.”

“That is so true! When I first came to barber school, I was shocked. Too many colors. Too many textures. My life up till then, I had only seen curly hair, which is my hair.”

“What kind of hair you think is the hardest to deal with?”

“I would say curly hair.” She paused for a few moments; maybe she was looking at my hair, whether it was balanced. Then she continued: “Everyone in my family has wavy hair. My father used to have very curly hair, but when he gets older, his hair becomes wavy. So, I often tell him once I get older, my hair will be wavy, just like him.”

Maybe the hardest things to deal with are ourselves. Just like how the barber is afraid of curly hair and has exactly that kind of hair. Maybe time can make hard things go away. Just like how as her father got older, his hair began to turn wavy instead of curly.

I thought about my father again. He had wavy hair. Mom said his hair used to be very curly, like instant noodles. Then my mind wandered to the time when I was in 5th grade. I was attending a cram lesson in Math, preparing for the entrance exam to the only magnet middle school in the city. At the end of class, the teacher asked a question. It went something like this: “in a city, there is only one barber, and X citizens who don’t know how to cut hair. The barber declares, I will only cut hair for those who cannot cut their own hair. How many people will the barber cut for?” If the barber does not cut his own hair, so according to the assumption, he should cut for himself. But that disqualifies him. There is something circular here.

“Do you cut your own hair?” I asked the barber.

“Oh yes, I do. Since 15.”

What did I do when I was 15? I still went to the barber shop with my father. If I decided to write a history of my hair, the most dominant figure in that history would be him, just like how Konrad Adenauer dominated the history of (West) Germany during the period after WW2. He dictated the style, how short it would be. When I was in high school, we still went to the barber shop together. He would still make the call; the only difference was that I rode him to the place. He got old, and I got big, so I took charge of the ride. We reversed roles, but it was not a full transition. Transportation-wise, I took him to the barber, but I did not think I would ever make the call on how his hair would look like.

“How do you cut your own hair?” Somehow, I became quite curious about this. Some people have the ability to help themselves. For example, a few can cheer themselves up. A few cook every meal they eat. Then there’s this barber who cuts her own hair.

“Oh, I do it like this.” She paused, and pulled her hair forward, in front of her face. “I would tie my hair into tails and pull each tail forward. With the tail before my eyes, I would cut it piece by piece. Then I would put it back and look in the mirror.”

“Hmm, interesting.” The technique was simple, yet clever.

Maybe helping oneself is easier than we think. What we need to do is to take a look at ourselves and see and adjust.

“When I was 15, I still let my father decide what my hair would look like.” I told her.

“That happens sometimes. I have a few customers who always tell me to adjust this and that without asking their children. I feel bad for the kids.” From her tone, I think she genuinely cared about the kids.

“It did not really matter to me though.”

“Before 15, my mom cut my hair for me. But she did not know how to cut hair. Every time she cut my hair was different. When we look at the photographs of that time, we laugh so hard.”

“Maybe she was experimenting with styles. She wanted you to look good.”

“My hair has always been curly, so styles don’t matter.”

Cutting hair is serious business. A bad hair can ruin a day. A bad haircut can ruin a month, or even months. Barbers face the same obstacle medical doctors have: they must acquire their skills with practice on real humans. Doctors dissect dead bodies. Do barbers cut hair for dead corpses? Or do they practice with mannequins with fake hair? These are serious questions, as serious as the causes of the financial crisis of 2008. Think about Donald Trump. His barber faces a lot of pressure. If the president’s hair is messed up, and given the president’s temperament and control of U.S. nuclear arsenal, who knows what will happen?

“I have this question. It sounds silly, but I have to ask it. How can you have many heads with hair to practice?”

“Oh, I went to a barber school. There they offer $5 haircut. People come in, and we practice on their head. With supervision, of course.” So, in the end, economics saves the day. Cheaper price creates an expectation of lower quality. But lower price also means higher quantity demanded. So, people who do not care about hair would go to these places, and the apprentices get the chance to improve their human capital.

“Oh, I see.”

“At first I freaked out because there were so many different kinds of hair. But then I got used to it. Some customers, when they went there, they always requested me.”

“I can understand why. You are good.”

“Yeah. I cut about 460 haircuts in 9 months. By the time I graduated, my instructor asked me to work for his shop. I declined because I had better help S. We are married, and he has this shop.” Now it became clear to me that she was S.’s wife. She was not a new hire. She was a co-owner. Husband and wife worked together in a small business, and the business had a very good reputation.

“Where is the barber school?”

“Oh, it is called [xxx] barber school. It is in Grand Prairie.”

“I see.”

“They are very nice there. The instructors are very caring and dedicated. They would stay with you the whole time and correct each small mistake you make. The students are also nice. I would say we learn together and from each other.” She was very fond of her school, and it seemed to be a family to her. Somehow, her stories made me happy.

“But what I am afraid most is not cutting hair, but English.” She paused for a while. “English is not my native language.”

“I get that. When you cut hair, you have this pressure to talk to the customer, right? I’m the quiet type, so I’m fine with no talking.”

“Yeah, sometimes it is so hard for me to find a topic and talk naturally to the customers. Unlike S., I don’t have a sense of humor. When a customer walks in and forgets to sign in on the board, he would joke, the customer would get the joke and sign in. I would just, oh hello, please sign in.”

To be honest, I enjoyed my conversation with her. Knowing how barbers cut their own hair and how they practice their craft is not something you expect to learn in college, like Calculus or Intro Microeconomics. Over there, her husband S. and Mike were talking about some old Buick car.

On my way back to the apartment, I walked past a sport field of a high school. The students were playing baseball, and the music was blasting the whole space. It was “Wannabe” by Spice Girls. Perfect, timeless song for high school era. Next, it was “Dancing Queen” by ABBA. I thought about my high school years, all the lost haircuts I should have had, and all the silence I endured with the barbers. Then I pondered over my college years. I thought about all the body weight, money, innocence, temper, patience, beliefs, and ideals that I had lost. It was kind of sad, until I touched my hair and realized that I gained one big thing: the courage to strike and keep a conversation with the people who cut my hair.