My barbers

Weather: 25C, sunny with a breeze

I’ve been regularly going to barbers for a few years now. At first I went to confident, experienced barbers. They looked like they were born with an apron on and scissors in hand. They twirled their tools and their gestures were quick and efficient, more muscle memory than deliberate action.

I hated them. They made me feel dumb for not having the vocabulary to describe what I wanted them to do. I’d awkwardly point and say things like “a little bit in the corner here, but maybe more like the rest of it, but not too short I guess?”. They would look at me with a look of forced patience, seeming to think “great, here’s another idiot that has no clue about the high arts of hair and beard”. After a while I started defaulting to “I’ll leave it up to you” and come away with a different style each time. I tried several barbers, hoping to find one whose own style I could live with.

Then one day I booked late and had to book with a tall, muscular man, who seemed like he would fit in more at a gym than a barber shop. He had faded tattoos (probably of names of various dishes in chinese) and an arabic word on the back of his neck. He didn’t seem smart. I reluctantly got in his chair, ready to come away with something hideous on my head. Then a miracle: he was kind and focused, with no air of arrogance or overconfidence. I didn’t feel rushed as I fumbled to tell him how I wanted my beard a little shorter, but sort of square still. He asked questions and checked in with me as he worked. After that, I always booked with him. He worked as a partner, not pushing his existing templates on my mess of a hair and beird, he seemed to genuinly try to do his best to make me feel good, instead of making me look trendy. His hands always smelled of soap, clean, neutral, calm.

When he left the barbershop, I was anxious to go again. Again I booked late and found myself with a young woman, slightly all over the place, tools scattered on the counter, a look of muted panic in her eyes. I braced myself. She has no idea what she’s doing – I thought. She didn’t. She was as clueless as I was, working in a weird order, jumping from beard to hair and back, swapping tools constantly, hands slightly trembling. I didn’t love the end product but I didn’t hate it either. It was fine and I felt like we were two humans, in iver our heads, trying to make the best of the situation.

When it cane time for another visit, I booked with her again. Maybe I felt a little sorry for her, how unsure and scared she seemed, how she seemed to muddle through and hope for the best. The second time was similar, but she felt more confident in her own chaos. It didn’t feel like she was falling behind, failing to reach the higher standards of the other barbers in the shop. This is who she is, how she works, a bit messy, a bit ad-hoc, with acceptable results. I felt great, sitting in her chair, feeling a connection with this fellow mess. Her hands smell slightly of vinegar, her own hair is all messy, and she also checks in with me, asking if I like the direction she’s going. Maybe less out of a calm, confident place and more out of an ever present fear of fucking up, but it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the checking, the caring, and the deep humanity of being just okay at her job. I think I’m sticking with her from now on.