My Haircut

Ever sine I was a kid, I admired this building, I think it has character. The way the upstairs windows come out into the street, the little woodworking details, give this building character. And it is about a block away from the house my great-grandfather built on Crane Street in 1912. I drive by this building almost every day on my way to work. For the longest time it appeared abandoned, with all the upstairs windows broken, no sign of activity on the downstairs floor. Last week I was driving by and noticed a light on in one of the shops, and it looked to be a barber shop. I wondered to myself if maybe my great-grandfather, maybe grandfather, maybe my dad, ever got haircuts in this same barber shop? I figured I had nothing to lose so why not get a haircut there myself?
Today was the day. I woke up knowing I was going there on my lunch hour, and then I began to have second thoughts. What if this place really isn't a barber shop, but is a front for a drug, prostitution, or illegal ivory trade? Would it be safe to go there if it was? Too bad I don't have a bullet proof vest. I was thinking that maybe I should find me a street-wise confederate to also act as my bodyguard on future adventures. And before I left on my lunch adventure I told my office mates what I was doing, and that if I am not back within an hour and a half they should call the police.
I parked on the street and walked in, asking if they give haircuts there. The barber was painting white "Barber Shop" letters on a black trash can, apparent;y people steal trash cans around there. He looked up and said "sure, what kind do you want?" I told him I wanted a buzz cut. "Oh, like a marine?" he asked, while he was putting down his paint brush. I said no, I wanted soemthing really short on the sides, but with a little left on top, but not enough to comb. As I was saying this I was taking off my coat and hat. Then he saw my hair and told me he couldn't do it, my hair was too thin. Black people tend to have thicker, curlier hair. "I'm not good at cutting white folks' hair" he said. I said, "Oh that's OK, I just want a buzz cut. How hard can that be?" Well, he picked up his paintbrush again and told me he couldn't take my money, he didn't want to cut my hair knowing he couldn't do a good job. I really wasn't worried about it, I just wanted a haircut. How hard can a buzz cut be, even with thin hair? I tried again to convince him, to no avail. His partner came out of the back room then. I could see I wasn't getting anywhere with him so I left.
So now, I am left wondering. Was racism the reason he wouldn't cut my hair? Or was he genuinely concerned that he couldn't do it? If I knew it was racism, I could laugh it off, like what an idiot, what kind of idiot lives with that much prejudice? If it was truly a concern about doing a good job with my hair, I could laigh that off, too, like what kind of idiot turns down an easy ten bucks. I mean a buzz cut, for heaven's sake? What kind of idiot can screw up a buzz cut?
But worse than either of the above explanations, is not knowing. Not knowing whether I was just a victim of racism or not was worse than actually being a victim.
I need to run this story by someone with more street smarts than I do to find out.
Anyway, on the way back to work I drove by my grandpa's old paint factory on Mack again, and verified it was at Crane and Mack, about 2 blocks away from Burns like I reported in my earlier blog. My Dad tells me from the photo I posted it was just the two-story building, and the attached single-story building was a separate business.
This blog has been generating more interest and discussion than I thought it would. That's cool.
I am going to try to post my email address up at the top so people from the old neighborhood can email me if they like.
I am really dissapointed I didn't get my haircut today though. I was hoping to just chat with the barber for a while.