SAROB.

It was September 5th and I needed a haircut. Tomorrow I begin my new life—one that exists far from the school buses, neatly groomed lawns and, on the other side, street corners lined with glass bottles and lottery tickets tucked tightly against the curb by loose gravel. All this has contributed to the décor, the vibe, of my neighborhood for the past twenty or so years. It’s changed, of course, and I’ve changed. But one thing has been fairly consistent: I can walk down the street and get a haircut.

This was the last time I went to the barbershop as a Dayton resident. This is somewhat painful (in perhaps a bludgeoning, not piercing kind of way) because of what the barbershop has meant and still means to me. It’s often a staple of the inner city. It’s something that kept me connected to my area and to my people. In the barbershop I would hear people talk about real life things—not the fleeting or low-risk problems that I learned attending school in the suburbs, but instead a variety of issues that have a persistent and significant impact on already marginalized people in already marginalized communities: inadequate health care, the inability to find fruitful employment, transportation troubles, legal troubles. And, just to dismiss any appearance of bowing the violin, we talked about the value of being from an inner city environment. We talked about the privilege of being in a place where we’re taught to develop accountability, respect, and integrity. We talk about being from a place where, if we were to commit a crime, our parents wouldn’t excuse it as a moment of misjudgment, and we would have to face repercussions from both the legal system and our community: our parents, our grandparents, our parents’ friends, the pastor, the pastor’s wife, our kindergarten teacher, our football coach, etc. I know this because when I was younger and went through my phase of “acting up,” there were many people I had to answer to, including my barber. And, honestly, if the barber knows, everybody knows.

My barbershop is also a place where we celebrated people’s accomplishments. When you walk in and hear that somebody just got a scholarship, you talk to him about it. You dap him up. Maybe you might crack on him. But you show love and you show that you’re proud. “So-and-so had a baby?” You show love. “So-and-so got a new job?” You show love. As I saw it, my barbershop is a place where my community talked to each other, celebrated each other, clowned each other, sometimes fought with each other, and spread wisdom to each other. As the beneficiary of much of this wisdom, I know that I’m forever grateful.

I’m not going to exaggerate and say that the barbershop raised me and all this other stuff; I mean, my family raised me. My mom does a hell of a job. Also I recognize that not everybody feels the same way about their barbershop. Maybe there’s another place that is of immense importance to you. I just like to be fresh, so obviously the barbershop would be the site in my neighborhood I’m most fond of. What I hope I can at least communicate is that this place has been a fraternity of sorts, a support system, and an educational space. In the ‘shop, we all would chime in about relationships and it would stay in the ‘shop. We might play somebody’s mixtape and tell them he’s fire or he’s fired. We might talk about how important it is to finish college because you don’t want to be thirty-five years old and having an inadequate living situation for yourself and your children. I’ll likely forget the particular details of conversations I heard or participated in in the barbershop, but I expect the lessons to remain. I’m thankful for them, and as I embark on my career in public service tomorrow (four months ahead of schedule), I look forward to carrying those lessons, those perspectives, and those values with me. You know. I gotta represent.

 Thank you to everyone for your continuous love and support.

- rob. 

*Woodway foreva*