How to Break Up With Your Barber

Aiight, a month ago I was in search of a new barbershop, because the barbers at my old one were aging in the eyes and deteriorating in their hands; my shape-ups were becoming more and more uneven, my haircuts more unbecoming, and it came to the point where I was goin to parties lookin an asymmetrical mess. The fact was that, at the average age of 50, these men had lost both their looks and their dexterity, and you know what, I didn't want any part in it.

So in my endless quest to stay young and poppin, I had to part ways.Being disconnected from my local Black community because I'm an Oreo, I had no idea where to go next. Hmm, where am I sure to find unadulaterated negro-osity around these parts? I wondered. The local indoor strip mall full of exploitive vendors selling useless shit to low class Black people, of course! Off to the ghetto mart I went.

As I'd predicted, amidst the stores offering weaves, Amish pork chops, and "exotic" Chinese massages advertised to cure both cancer and depression, I found a Black barbershop. And unlike my old one, all the barbers were so young, so virile, so not afflicted with arthritis! A chair opened up at the station of a handsome Black guy with a light goatee, and he sat me down to experience his Black magic.

And magical it was, for on my beard he used a RAZOR, a heavenly instrument which I had previously denounced for its harshness. Yet now in its aftermath, I couldn't believe the resulting precision of my sexiness. And to my satisfaction, he didn't really try to force convo with me- which was a huge plus because I don't like to talk to the help.

2 weeks later I went back, expecting to find the same stunning results. Once again, it was great. By the third time, however, the Black magic was gone. I first noticed it when he tried to talk to me, which was totally a mistake on his part.

"Aren't you the dude who said you sing?" he asked as I sat in the chair.

"No," I replied.

"I could've sworn you were a singer and that we talked about it last time you were in my chair," he said.

"Nope."

"Oh aiight. Yeah, cause *I* sing. I even had a record deal."

"Oh what happened with that?"

"It fell apart. But it's all good, I'm still pushin on, tryna make it big, nyahmean? You gonna see me in lights one day."

"How old are you?"

"37"

"Oh that's sad."

"...Damn, 37 aint that old, man. Keith Sweat is like at least 50 and he's still goin platinum."

"No he's not...but yeah, I don't mean you're old lol. Music is just a tough business, I've written about it."

"Oh you're a song writer?"

"No, I mean articles, stories..."

"Oh you're a writer like that? I'm tryin to get my autobiography off the ground, man. I haven't written since high school. I mean I can write sentences, but I can't do all that fancy stuff. Like, you know..."

"...Like paragraphs?"

"Yeah. So all I need is a good writer to tell my story. Maybe everyday you come in to get a cut, I can tell you a small part of my life story- and then after a year, you can compile it all into a book that we can shop around."

"...."

"Yeah man, I have a story to TELL! I'd find SOME way to pay you, yo."

"Actually I've kinda retired from writing, I'm now a consultant, sorry." Heartbroken, he resumed cuttin my hair. And I think he dashed a little salt in his clippers, because my cut wasn't quite as good as it was 2 weeks ago.

And then the next time, my cut wasn't as good as it was 2 weeks prior. And then fast forward to this past weekend- the nigga butchered me!! Dude was doin too much with both the razor and the clippers, and I wasn't comfortable with how close he was gettin to my skin.

"Please don't shape up my hairline in the front," I said.
He put shaving cream on my hairline and shaped it up in the front.

"Please don't shave under my neck," I requested. Nigga took the blade to my neck.

Now if there's ANYTHING I hate in this world, it's an insubordinate shoe shine boy. And next up is an insubordinate barber. The nerve!

As I stood up to pay, I just wanted to throw my $20 in his face and walk out. Just as I turned to leave, he said with a concerned look, "Hold on, I left somethin on your face." He came towards me with a cotton ball soaked with alcohol and smeared it all over my newly raw face, burning me alive. I tried to compose myself as I stood there seething, all the niggas in the barbershop starin at me in curiosity.

What were they starin at? I wondered. As soon as I left, I raced to the strip mall's restroom to see what he'd done to my hair. Omg, why was there blood everywhere!?! Blood on my face, blood on my forehead, blood in the crevices of my shape-up; I looked like psycho ass Carrie at her prom. They're all gonna laugh at me! I thought to myself :-(

So yeah, I don't wanna see that nigga no more. Especially not this weekend when I have to look fly for my college's Black Alumni Reunion/Homecoming. However, he's always the first chair open, and I've been seein him consistently for about 2 months. When he invites me to sit down like he always does, how should I turn him down? It's obvious that I've been his exclusive customer for a while, and I feel like if I say "Nah I'm good," his face will totally crack- which would tickle my soul, but ruin my experiences at this barbershop. Help!