Caner Dreams

This reminds me of when I first moved to Chicago from Baltimore and needed to get a haircut for an interview. I was searching for a barbershop that didn't seem to ingrained in the social network of whatever neighborhood it was in. Black barbershops are a super tight social network and me being a shy, awkward kid just looking for clean up I wanted to find the most all about business barbershop I could find.

So I found a barbershop just north of Wrigleyville at a busy intersection and pretty empty, what I thought would be the perfect spot, things went downhill as soon as I walked in the door. It was quiet inside, strangely quiet, kind of creepy quiet. Only one barber cutting his only client's hair and neither of them were talking. The barber kept nervously drinking from a water bottle and going into the back behind this curtain every couple of minutes. This place was totally freaking me out, I wanted to make a mad dash out of there but it would be so obvious me being the only other person in the room except for the barber, the guy in the chair and maybe whoever was being kept behind that curtain.

So the barber finished the other guy's hair, he paid, mumbled something to the barber and left. The barber motioned for me to take the chair and as I sat down he again went into the back. What the hell was going on back there? Was he conferring with someone that I was the next perfect victim? That they had been following me for weeks and set up an elaborate ruse to guide me to this very spot for my long and agonizing demise?

He comes back and points to the wall in front of the chair, I don't understand what that's supposed to mean so I don't respond. When I don't respond the way he wants he mumbles something at me, I still don't understand. He finally raises his voice to be just audible, probably so he doesn't disturb whatever is behind that curtain and says, "Pick a style". On the wall is a poster of hairstyles, more modern styles than the ones in the linked post but the fantastical names are gone and replaced by numbers.

The fact that I have to pick a number instead of telling him what I want thoroughly convinces me that I will be dead with a quick slash across my neck with straight razor in about 5 minutes. I scan the poster try to determine the easiest and quickest one to pick so I can get the fuck out there, I tell him "I'll take number 17".

He cuts my hair it looks nothing like 17 but it also isn't butchered, I give him $15, $12 for the cut and $3 dollars for tip and quickly get out of there. Completely wrapped in paranoia I walk home taking a long, circuitous route to throw off anyone who may have been 'following' me.

I didn't get the job.

// posted by baltimoron @ 9:21 AM