Sean tells me of a barber shop off Richland Street. “Cairo,” he says, “is an awesome shop. It’s just like Winston’s, but better.” What he fails to tell me is that I have to drive through downtown. He knows full well I don’t like going downtown unless it’s absolutely necessary. Especially on a Saturday. Plus, I’m skeptical of anything my brother says. But I entertain him and agree to check this place out.
Cairo sits between a Chinese restaurant and an antique shop. Already, I’m not impressed. I don’t see a table outside or a barber’s pole. At the old shop, we watched old men play checkers or chess or dominoes. We didn’t know what they talked about. Probably none of our business. I remember Dad telling us stories when he visited the shop before we were born. Back then, the barbershop meant something to the African-American community. It was an institution where Black men of all shapes, shades, and status gathered and conversed about everything. Sports, music, current affairs, life stories. Everyone knew everyone. Strangers became friends, even family. He complains how the institution has changed, and not for the better.
When I enter Cairo, it’s nothing like Winston’s. I feel it’s more like a club or a sports bar than a barbershop. The mix of hairspray and rubbing alcohol hangs in the air. Hip-hop blazes throughout. TVs strung across the walls play ESPN, except two that run slideshows of the barbers and their handiwork. I take a seat in the waiting area. Customers glance at their phones, texting, while a group of kids huddle around the TV, playing NBA basketball on the 360. I can’t imagine Dad coming to a shop like this.
“Hey?” a barber yells. He’s just as dark as I am. Streamlined strands of jet black and silver-toned hairs compose his beard and mustache.
“You waiting on someone?”
I shake my head. “This is my first time here.”
I hear someone whistling. We look back and see a man darker than I am jerk his head back.
“Dante will take care of you.”
I walk across the room. I glance at the stations with black chairs lining the walls. Barbers on both sides work on their clients. On the left stand barbers old as my dad. The other side, barbers about my age, maybe younger. The barber meets me at the back of the room. He wears a black cap with the Trinidad flag stitched in. His thin mustache blends in with his midnight complexion.
“So you’re Alex. Dante.”
He speaks like he’s an islander. Though I’m not sure if he’s from Trinidad. We slap hands, then he sweeps his chair.
“Your brother comes here a lot. Told me a lot about you.”
I don’t know what to make of it.
“So? How do you want your hair?”
I see a Black hairstyle poster behind him. Some clean and simple. Some with curved fades. But one model stands out; the one with a shaved head and groomed beard and mustache.
“That one,” I say, pointing to the model in the corner. He chuckles a little. Honestly, it’s not my first choice. Brandi, my wife, thinks I can pull it off like that rapper Common. “He’s not much older than you are,” she states. And then she points out the bald spot. The one that screams “I’m getting older.” Mom says it runs in the family. I’m not sure I buy it. Dad looks dressed to impress every time he goes out. He wears one of those Kangol caps every time he goes out. But Brandi says it will make me more distinguished. So I go along with it.
“All right. Have a seat.”
I slide into the chair and he drapes a royal blue cape with gold scissors around me. He spins me around, then rummages through his station, gathering his tools. He pulls out a trimmer and a wireless electric shaver. Then grabs a hairbrush and strokes my forehead, then proceeds to brush the back. He activates the trimmer and runs it from the front to the back in one smooth motion. I mourn the clumps of my thinning hair falling onto the tiled floor.
“Where you from?”
“University City, but I work in St. Louis.”
My life revolves around St. Louis. I graduated from the university with a degree in Finance. I travel from University City every day for my job. Brandi complains that I’m always working; that I don’t make time for the family. I explain every time the argument comes up that I’m making a better future for everyone. Dad worked non-stop to provide for his family. It nearly killed him and Mom divorced him because of it.
I tell these things to Dante, and he smiles. He sets the corded trimmer down and uses the electric razor for a touch up.
“Sounds like you have a good life. I came here from Trinidad ten years ago. Parents sent me so I could go to school and get a Ph.D. Didn’t work out so well.”
Dante tells me he got kicked out for low grades and that his parents cut him off afterwards. He tells me of how he went to Barber school and found his passion. I envy him because he followed his own path with no regrets.
I pat my head the moment Dante finishes with the electric shaver. It’s like I’m running my fingers across the body of a showroom Corvette. He works on my beard next, using the same trimmer with a larger guide. The short strands tug at my chin as he runs the trimmer up. Try as they might, it’s a losing battle. I stroke my beard, marveling at the cleanliness. Dante adjusts the backrest as if I’m napping on a recliner. I tilt my head and see what looks like a straight razor. I grip the armrests tight. Razors make me nervous. Ever since the day Sean cut me with Dad’s razor. He walked in on us in the bathroom, Sean waving it around like a baseball bat. He startled Sean to where he flung it across the room. I tried to dodge it, but it ended up nicking me at my earlobe. To this day, I don’t know was worse: the cut or the whooping we received afterwards.
Dante chips away at my sideburns like a master sculptor. I try to breathe, relinquish my grips. I close my eyes, allowing him to work his magic. My thoughts drift as a more mellow song plays on the radio. I feel at peace. That is, until I feel the razor etch away at my mustache. The zen escapes. Fear of history repeating itself takes its place. Dante’s strokes are more minute, yet precise. He stops for a moment to brush off the loose strands.
“Relax, A-man.”
“Sorry. I don’t use razors much.”
I take that brief lapse to breathe. To let go of the panic I brought onto myself. My eyes dart around, but all I can see is the shine of the razor as it moves back and forth. So I release my grips and shut my eyes. The blood circulates throughout my fingers and my mind drifts again. I think about Brandi and Tyson approving my new look.
Dante walks away from me for a moment. I glide my fingers across my mustache and sideburns, feeling for any nicks. But I feel nothing. He returns, then lays a towel on top my bald head. I swoon at the warmness as he digs his fingers in. He moves it down to my mustache and beard, again scrunching his hands to work the heat into my trimmed hairs. Dante lifts the backrest up. He runs something onto my forehead and neck with a cotton ball.
“What is that?”
“Just rubbing alcohol.”
The answer shocks me. Other barbers do the same thing, but I had no idea what they use after the shave. I thought it was industrial strength aftershave. Dante unwraps me and hands me a mirror. Twisting and turning, I inspect every angle. Everything is clean. Everything is short. It’s perfect.
“‘Ya like?”
“Very much.” After paying him, he gives me his business card.
“Call me and let me know you’re coming.”
“I will. Thanks.”
We shake hands and I give him a half-salute. As I walk out, my phone rings. It’s Brandi. I smile, then answer the phone.
“Hey, baby…Just got out. Remind me to call Sean to thank him for recommending this place.”
Return to George R. Neese’s Winterview.
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