For some, the barbershop is a space for self-discovery. For others, a space where identities die. But for me, it’s where thoughts are shaved and swept away.
Studying in a private Catholic school meant having a religious devotion to the “2×3 barber’s cut”—two fingers from the ears, three fingers from the collar. It also meant monthly visits to the barbershop, which I’ve always hated. Not because I wanted to grow out my hair (heaven forbid some flowing locks of hair impede my academic pursuits), but because the barbershop conjures up fears of dreadfully long queues and awkward silences (that I prefer over the equally awkward conversations that the barber initiates). But most of all, it conjures up fears of shame.
In this masculine space, I’m forced to grapple with truths that I’ve swept away so easily: why I found myself staring at that full-body picture of Elvis Presley or those printed sample haircuts taped on the windows. I’ve always felt that I was staring at these images for a second too long, which constituted a deep shame about myself. A shame that eats away at me as I’m forced to sit in front of a mirror for what felt like eternity.
ADVERTISEMENT
Why was I so deeply enamored with this image of a man with a side part almost twice the size of his forehead? What is it about this man in full leather that has caught my attention so much? And why was I staring for so long?
The answer terrified me, so I would focus my eyes on the floor and wait for my turn on the swivel chair of eternity, on which my dad would always fall asleep, and my brother would scroll on his phone. I, however, kept a hyperconscious awareness of everything but myself.
I would fidget with the cloth, memorize the varieties of products in front of me, hum to the pitch of the razor, tap my feet to the rhythm of the music, blur my eyes to focus on my peripheral vision; whatever it took to avoid taking a long, hard look at myself as the barber endlessly swapped between razors and scissors.
At times, when I inadvertently catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I see an overweight boy, peppercorns on his face, growing bags under his eyes, and asymmetry of a haircut in progress. Chapped lips, pimples, peeling skin between his brows. Deep, dark eyes, which he regarded as thieves.
Those glimpses created their own eternities, drowning me in thoughts of shame and resentment, thoughts that forced their way into the forefront of my consciousness. Thoughts of more than just myself, but of the barber, the boys in line for a haircut, the images of Elvis Presley, or the Beatles.
Thoughts that clashed with my upbringing, thoughts that I knew would invite mockery by his peers, by his community. Thoughts that signaled: “Maybe you truly don’t know who you are.”
And before I knew it, the barber was finished, sweeping bits of hair from my shoulders that signaled an end to eternity.
Once the towel around my neck was removed, I would breathe a sigh of relief like a heavy weight was removed from my chest. I’d stand up, pay for my haircut, tip the barber a twenty-peso bill, and head for the exit.
But before I leave, I look back on the scene of the crime: the barber sweeps my shaved hair onto a dustpan and dumps it in the trash. He readies his razor and scissors, and he motions for the next boy in line to sit on the swivel chair of eternity.
There it goes, all those thoughts and revelations about myself, down the hatch, as I left the barbershop and traveled home.
I was comfortable for a while, until I had to deal with the itching of my nape. Some thoughts are difficult to shave off; some cling to your shoulders and dig deep for your attention.
You can scratch all you want, but every time you sit in the chair of eternity, these thoughts will inevitably itch again.
The barbershop, I’ve found, is a realm of possibilities: maybe he decides, for once, that he won’t be getting the “2×3 barber’s cut” his father chose for him back when he was nine; or he eyes the box of red hair dye in the barber’s trolley; or he becomes conscious of the way his hand is placed on the armrest, careful to avoid the man’s crotch.
Or he steals strands of eye contact with the boy of his age on the other swivel chair behind him, and he looks down at his feet where all cuts of his hair are being swept away.
Or maybe he finally takes a long, hard look at himself in the mirror and takes it all in.
