Across the Great Divide

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.