Across the Great Divide

Noise is Better Than Blood.

As I locked my bike outside Peace House, the peace was already broken. Voices raised. Words harsh. Brain chemicals choosing fight over flight. A fellow to whom I gave a haircut last week (schizophrenic, someone whispered) yelled at a woman who objected to his disrespectful way of reminding her she owed him money.

He had been fine on the barber stool. Appreciative. But he went off on others, especially, it seemed, women.

A Peace House regular stepped in when the man threw something at the woman. He's a good and helpful community member, but today his defense took up the tone of the offender.

(As Sun Tzu said, "Choose your enemies well, for you will come to resemble them." Or was it Nietzsche? Or Mark Twain or Anonymous?)

Now, they were toe-to-toe, nose-to-nose, ancient grievance-to-ancient grievance. Fists raised. M******F******s exchanged. 

Funny. My meditation topic for the day was going to be about confronting a former adversary and finding peace.

I have gained distance from my enemies. This comfort zone is why I am more relevant to our community when I do haircuts instead of when I philosophize. 

Today was a record. Eight customers—all but one from a tradition of haircutting different from mine.

No one had asked for a haircut, so I was out on the sidewalk checking my messages when Ali walked up and asked me to prune his scalp. After that, the floodgates opened, and I was busy for more than two hours.

Toward the end, a young guy asked if could give him a cut. Early on after telling me what he wanted, he flinched. I asked him what had happened. He showed me his blood-encrusted ear. He had fallen asleep at the bus stop and hit his head when he fell off the bench. He wrapped his fingers around the ear to protect it, which made the cutting difficult.

Then the Observer emerged from the restroom. He proceeded to tell me how I should cut the young fellow's hair. 

It's okay. The passage to the restrooms gets a lot of traffic and I endure a lot of comments intended to be funny. But the Observer wanted to give a critique. He, too, cut hair and, as an African-American, surely had more experience in relevant barbershops than I. He wanted to tell me how I should be doing the taper ("Have you done a taper before?) and how to follow the natural hair line.

Duh, but okay. Please move on.

He continued giving advice on which clipper guide to use, questioning why I trimmed the neckline the way I did. 

Peace.

Then he told me how I could not possibly taper the sides to the top. I offered him the clippers. He waved them off. I offered again after more critique. He waved them off again.

Near the end, the young man was laughing. He was happy with his haircut because I had taken it slowly, showing him each step of the process until we reached the result he wanted.

Then I sought out the Observer. 

"You did not listen to me," he said. "I know how to cut hair."

"No disrespect to you," I said, "but when I am cutting, I only listen to the person on the stool." 

"You did a good job," he said.

"Thank you," I said.

Noise is better than blood. Respect is better than noise.

 

 

 

 

The Hair They Left Behind.

Today I had to keep cooling off the clippers because so many men were lined up for haircuts at Peace House.

An old rocker who just wanted to look more presentable.

A Chinese man who had great hair already but wanted it shorter on the sides with plenty left on the top.

A middle-aged black man who told me to take it all the way down and luxuriated in the massage the vibrating clippers transmitted to his scalp.

Human touch, felt even through a machine.

A red-haired younger guy with a Spanish surname. He asked to go bald and keep his beard, but then changed his mind. I showed him how he'd look with a Van Dyke. Pretty cool, I thought, but he said, no, take it all off.

A Native man with a long ponytail wanted the front faded and the back left long. It was a challenge to do the fade without nipping the hair pulled back into the band, but when we were finished, he looked ready for the movies.

A kid with dreads asked, do you know how to do a line? Yeah, I said, but he left before his turn came.

I handed each the mirror, urging them to ask for whatever they wanted. Maybe I'm reading too much into it, but they seemed uncomfortable demanding too much.

Perfect, more than one said before I thought I was finished. Perfect.

These days, "perfect" can also mean, "that's enough."

Like Rumi, who said, "You must ask for what you really want," I want to tell them, this time is yours alone, for as long as you need. It's okay here to ask for what your heart desires, and I will do the best I can to fulfill it.

Now the day's the trimmings mingle on the floor. Before I sweep them up, I think of five men headed out in the world. A part of them is perfect for the moment, and they are part of this story, which could exist only because of their requests.

 

Why Do People Care About Getting a Haircut?

James came in for a haircut on his lunch break. A Native man with hair down to his shoulders. The anniversary of his mother's death is approaching and he wanted his hair cut short in her memory.

He's working now after many stints in prison. From three unstable jobs simultaneously to one that's steadier. He was present when she died. Her last words same out slowly, one breath at a time: "I love you, son... I love you, son... I love you, son..."

James told me he's stayed out of trouble since.

Chris was supposed to be my last trim of the day. He wanted his beard lined. As I cleaned the clippers in preparation, he asked how long I had been a barber.

I'm not a barber, I said, but I started in 1967, cutting hair in college.

Chris told me they had made him take two years of classes in prison before they let him cut the hair of other inmates.

We'd learned more or less the same way, by doing, but only one of us was supervised.

Would you like to do it yourself, I asked.

He nodded, and I handed him the clippers.

As Chris bent over the hand mirror placed on the stool in the hallway, Mark came out of the rest room. He was already well into his Friday night at 1:30 pm.

Why do people with no hair care so much about getting their haircut, he wondered aloud. What's the point?

Mark has a bushy grey beard and usually keeps the long strands on his head under a ball cap.

I could give you trim, I said. Mark is one of a couple guys I know will never ask me for a haircut, so I offer each time I see them, and they turn me down in the same light spirit.

But today, Mark's refusal had an edge.

You know why my hair's thin on top? I had it yanked out in clumps when I was a kid. I got no roots.

That's terrible, I said.

What can you do, he shrugged.

Avoid haircuts, I suppose. And not let anyone ever again touch your head.