Steppin' Out

There are some things a man would prefer to take to his grave.

The truth, however, eventually comes to light, and part of manhood is honesty. We all do things that seem like a good idea at the time. The excitement, the rush…the thrill of experiencing something different.

Then it’s over. It’s been different, fulfilling, and you look in the mirror and see a different person. But now something’s changed. You can’t go where you used to go. People can tell. They can look at you and sense something different. Many will compliment you, but there is someone that you have to avoid, someone that knows you as well as you know yourself, and that person will notice the difference instantly. You have to wait until some time passes for things to get somewhat back to normal, and even then, you’re still thinking about the possibilities of something else.

I have been harboring something that has been bothering me for months now. I’m torn, because this affects one of the most important relationships a Black man has.

I have been cheating on my barber.

I know the women reading this are shaking their head and once again looking to commit me to an institution that boast rubber walls and coats that button up the back. My male readers, though, are staring at the page, dumbfounded. At least one has stopped reading and is stalking around in big circles, muttering oaths. Another is sitting quietly and praying some good will come of this. Still another is looking at me and thinking, “Young fool.”

Let me explain.

Genetics on both sides has ensured there will be no Afro in my future. Contrary to popular belief, when your hair is beating its own hasty retreat, it requires even more care than when you can do it up in an Arnold Jackson part. You can stand in the bathroom yourself, run the clippers against the grain, and voila! One supposedly respectable haircut. That looks like you did it at home, in the bathroom. While inhaling vodka.

My main barber (omigosh, I’m already using a cheater’s vocabulary) is a young guy that works in the suburb where I grew up. My folks still live there, and when I was married, I owned a home there as well. I like the shop. It’s convenient. The shop atmosphere is cool, a respectful, but honest mix of sports, politics and the like. Women think barbershops are like locker rooms. They’re right, but don’t understand the nuances. There are football locker rooms, basketball locker rooms, squash locker rooms…Different guys, different perspectives. Just because you overhear what goes on in one doesn’t mean you understand the mindset of the players in the others. All they have in common is that they are athletes and this is a place where they get dressed.

The conversation at my home barbershop, where, as the owner put it, “three generations of James McCallum come for a cut” (the guilt!) is very different from other shops in other locations. Working homeowners who are worried about droughts and the grass have different conversations than urban professionals who live in condos downtown and spend most of their free time socializing with other adults. I’ve lived both experiences. There is a difference.

Anyway, I didn’t step out on my barber because I found the shop’s atmosphere wanting. I still like to go to the shop, shoot the breeze, and discuss kids and Obama and whatever sport is in season.

Nah, I’m a man. I went astray because of performance.

Sadly, the barbershops in the city boast barbers who can cut the hell out of some hair. Even if you don’t have much hair. Especially if you don’t have much hair. Ghetto barbers can hook up a coconut and have it look more like a date than a piece of fruit by the time they’re done. They can work the clippers and do wonders with straight razors and when you are done, honestly, you look like a different person. You go in Daddy and come out…I don’t know, Marques or somebody. The Altima is a Bentley. You are headed not back to the suburbs but to your country home. When you get a haircut in the hood, you didn’t just get your hair cut, you got a life experience. Sure, you have to deal with the hypes and the hookers and the bootleg man, and honestly, it ain’t always as funny as it was in “Barbershop.” The weekend wait is longer than a made for TV movie. I daresay, though, it’s always worth it.

The gas, the wait, the price (higher than my regular) the trip…These rendezvous can get expensive. Some of my boys have mistresses. When I argue the insanity of having someone on the side, the expense, the inconvenience, the ducking and hiding, they look at me and try to draw parallels with my barber scenario. I retort that I can always come home, endure some suspicious looks and try to have my regular barber attempt to duplicate the other craftsman’s skill to maintain the new look, they question how that is any different from when they…forget it.

I’m going to do better. If nothing else, my home shop is always… home. It is where I take my son to get his biweekly cut, and hear neighborhood news and watch old Bill Cosby and Sidney Poitier movies on the big screen. I can still sit in the familiar chair and get that same, old familiar thirty seven year old Daddy cut. What it lacks in excitement, it more than makes up in familiarity. It’s home.

That place you go when you’re not straying, trying to live a life that ain’t yours.