{"id":108690,"date":"2017-03-13T14:29:16","date_gmt":"2017-03-13T18:29:16","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=108690"},"modified":"2017-03-13T16:24:47","modified_gmt":"2017-03-13T20:24:47","slug":"high-fade","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2017\/03\/13\/high-fade\/","title":{"rendered":"High Fade"},"content":{"rendered":"
<\/a>

At his barber shop in Paterson, New Jersey, Louis McDowell gives Michael Young a haircut. Photo: Martha Cooper, 1994.<\/p><\/div>\n

 <\/p>\n

My barber in New Orleans works a few blocks from Preservation Hall. His building sits across from the French Quarter, tucked inside the Trem\u00e9. He\u2019s got this fat painting of Louis Armstrong sitting by the door, above a replica of that photo featuring Harlem Renaissance authors posted on a stoop<\/a>; and, just under that frame, there\u2019s a deed for the property, which my barber calls the remnant of a black neighborhood turned blue.<\/p>\n

Faubourg Trem\u00e9 was the first town of free black people in the States. It was founded at the close of the eighteenth century, back when New Orleans held most of Louisiana\u2019s\u00a0emancipated people of color. The city then was a smoothy of black and Latin influence, and the Trem\u00e9 testifies to that tradition\u2014but you can only notice its history, my barber swears, if you knew about it before you got here.\u00a0<\/p>\n

Now, the Trem\u00e9 largely consists of white folks renting for the weekend. And white folks snapping photos. And white folks cruising up and down Esplanade, half drunk on group bike tours. My barber\u2019s learned to work around it: he cuts white hair, too. He says the tourists aren\u2019t going anywhere, but it doesn\u2019t mean that he is, either.<\/p>\n

Much has been made of the black barbershop\u2019s role as a locus of community; what\u2019s sometimes left out is the craftsmanship that goes into the barbering itself. Black hair is hard to do. It\u2019s a hassle and an art. A crisp fade isn\u2019t something to cast off: a haircut is an intimacy, a delicacy, and a lifeline. A good cut is a lot like sex: you could probably, honestly, find it just about anywhere. But to find someone who can navigate your contours, caring for the curves of your particular shape\u2014that might take a minute. Many live their whole lives without it.<\/p>\n

Coming up in Texas, my first barber was a black guy, a veteran and a friend of my father\u2019s, and also a homophobe and an apologist. He\u2019d start with a tirade against social services, or reparations, or women\u2019s rights, before transitioning to Jewishness, and Hollywood and the weather. But he\u2019d fade you up like no one\u2019s fucking business. He cradled my head like a sculptor. I came to associate his art with a brutish, inert, many-armed ignorance.<\/p>\n

Your hair, he told me, should only ever be done by a black man. No one else will do you justice; they don\u2019t have it in them. And I agreed with that for years\u2014he was my context and my citation\u2014until I finally fixed my carburetor and the price of gas dropped and I never made it back to his block.<\/p>\n

My next barbers were Dominican. And then Japanese. And then Puerto Rican. A Vietnamese lady clipped my ear and the gash felt raw for months. For a while, I saw a Pakistani man, a guy who grew mint in glass jars by the register, until one day I arrived and he simply told me he didn\u2019t cut hair anymore.<\/p>\n

Nowadays, whenever I\u2019m in Houston, I frequent a Thai shop in the suburbs. It doesn\u2019t look like much of anything from the outside: it sits in a strip mall, crammed behind a taqueria, and they\u2019ve got four or five or six barbers inside, lazing through magazines and smoothing their nails. There\u2019s a karaoke box by the register. Their clientele is almost exclusively white, but the price list has only two words in English: \u201cbuzz cut.\u201d<\/p>\n

After my first cut, from a woman who plainly told me my hair was \u201cgarbage,\u201d I ended up in a younger guy\u2019s seat. He was fit and tall, with a drawl I\u2019d come to associate with a particular brand of drug dealer. When he found out I lived in New Orleans, he asked whether I\u2019d be up for carting cigarettes from the city. I could buy them there and drive them back to Houston, and he\u2019d slip me a cut of his sales.<\/p>\n

We\u2019d make a killing, he said, because Asians love smoking, and I smiled and grunted with something like a nod as he clipped at the top of my neck.<\/p>\n

He told me he passed through Baton Rouge often. He had some girlfriends around town. When he asked how I felt about that, I grunted again. But then an extraordinary thing happened: his bluster disappeared, and he turned silent. Contemplative. The cut took upward of an hour. Afterward, he took off my glasses and knelt to look in my eyes. He said I should\u2019ve seen myself, I didn\u2019t know what I was missing, and then, having paid me that compliment, impossibly, unmistakably, he smiled.<\/p>\n

He gave me his card. I just sat there, confounded. I didn\u2019t know whether to tip him an extra fiver or what.<\/p>\n

It\u2019s rough going, describing the significance of a crisp cut and what it can do\u2014but it\u2019s like everything else that no one needs until they\u2019ve actually gotten it. I\u2019ve had whole weeks, whole months, turned around after leaving the shop, and feeling the air on my head, and knowing this one thing about me had changed. It might sound dubious or romantic or whatever, but, apportioned correctly, in moderate doses, a feeling like that could change your whole life.<\/p>\n

*<\/p>\n

Of course, I haven\u2019t seen that guy since. I keep showing up and he\u2019s always away. Inevitably, my regular in Texas has become the old woman clipping in the next chair over.<\/p>\n

She\u2019s only graced me with the necessary pieces of English (\u201cten dollars\u201d), and her cuts last usually just under five minutes. She bobs my ears between her palms. Occasionally, she\u2019ll pinch me. She grabs my neck and she flicks my ears and I\u2019ll sit there, thinking: this old fucking lady.<\/p>\n

But I always come up from her chair looking decent. Good, even. I\u2019d be a fool to expect more. And whenever I thank her, which I try to do with all possible sincerity, she nods with a certainty, a knowingness, that transcends language altogether.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Bryan Washington divides his time between Houston and New Orleans. His first collection of stories, <\/em>Lot, is forthcoming from Riverhead Books.\u00a0<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

A good cut is like sex: you could probably find it just about anywhere. 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