A regular ritual of mine upon returning to the city is to head to the barbershop and get a cut. Something about that early morning trip is very liberating. The air is crisp. I feel as if I am amongst real people.
The barbershop presents a weird dichotomy. At once, I am proud of the talent, dedication, and struggle exhibited by the many characters that populate it throughout the day. But sometimes when I listen to their discussion, I get depressed about the cycle that continues to perpetuate in the Black community. Even as my personal hair artisan was joking about another customer's prowess on the handball courts, the discussion quickly turned to a listing of the places that they used to buy marijuana in their younger days. What can you do, especially when you're laughing along with them?
It's still nice though. I'm thankful for the time I go there and also thankful that it is so short. It's easy to fall in love with their tales of debauchery and hustle and also easy to see why so many never make it out of their basement adjacent dwellings. Love/hate has never been so dramatically illustrated
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