Open Water by Caleb Nelson (books to read in your 30s .TXT) 📗

‘That’s fair.’

‘So are you gonna get one or not?’

‘Maybe.’

‘Maybe?’

You stop walking, right on time, and point the phone camera in front of you, to the barbershop.

‘Ah,’ she says. ‘Great minds.’ You sign off and go inside.

A haircut is an undertaking. You think of the waiting, waiting for your hairline to breach the line your barber had placed on your forehead a few weeks before. You think of the decision to go, a gamble in itself; your barber, like most barbers, doesn’t have a schedule. Today, as you ­enter – you’re early, early is always ­better – there’s a child in the seat, bawling as the barber takes a ­metal-­toothed comb to hair which has curled and twisted, roots and undergrowth merged together to form a dense, kinky bush on his head. His mother watches on as the barber attempts to tease the comb through hair which won’t reciprocate the effort. Leon, your barber, doesn’t give up. He oils the hair with his own hands, so it is a smooth journey for the comb, rather than the scratches like twigs snapping. He takes care, and the child calms, comforted by the endeavour and the barber’s instructions for kink prevention.

It’s not long before the barber gives a nod in your direction to say it’s your turn. You sit in the chair, letting him drape the apron over you which he cinches at the neck. He takes a set of clippers in hand; the buzz of the machine operates at a vibration that speaks to you and encourages you to do the same.

‘Wha’ ya want?’ he asks.

‘Skin fade,’ you say. ‘Keep the top, please.’

‘The beard?’

‘You can shave it off.’

The barber works quietly, murmuring to himself. You close your eyes and allow yourself to drift away. You’re safe here. You are able to say what you want and know it is OK. You know there is a semblance of control here that you don’t often have. You know you can be free here. Where else can you guarantee Black people gather? This is ritual, shrine, ecstatic recital. With every visit, you are declaring that you love yourself. You love yourself enough to take care. And it’s here, in the barbershop, that you can be loud and wrong and right and quiet. It’s here you can lean across to the next man, and state your case, ask for clari­­fication, enquire into that which you don’t know. It is here you can laugh, it is here you can be serious. It is here you can breathe. It is here you can be free. Especially with your barber. What you say to him, stays.

‘How you been?’ he asks.

‘Can’t complain, can’t complain. You?’

‘Just came back from holiday. I was in Ghana.’

‘How was it?’

‘My body is back but my mind is still there.’

‘It’s a special place.’

‘You’ve been?’

‘A while ago. That’s where my family is from.’

‘That makes sense. You’ve got that energy, that rhythm. Everyone is so calm there. They take their time. They eat, they drink, they laugh. They live well. And I tell you something else,’ he says, tapping your shoulder. ‘You don’t have to worry about looking like us when you’re out there.’

‘I hear that,’ you say.

‘That kinda freedom?’ He shakes his head and continues to work the clippers over your scalp.

‘It’s just different,’ he starts up a few moments later. ‘The sunshine. The climate, it makes me want to do things. To be out in the world. When I’m here, winter comes, and I hibernate.’ You both laugh. ‘I wasn’t meant to be here, you know? I’ve been in this country years and years, before you were born. Came here, had my children, my children are having children. And still, it doesn’t feel like home. Doesn’t feel like I’m wanted here. Hmm. What is it you do? For work?’

‘I’m a photographer.’

‘See, you don’t have to be here. You have another half ?’

You pull your phone from your pocket and flash the photo of her on your home screen.

‘She’s beautiful. Want my advice? Find a place you can call home. This isn’t it. It’s hard to just be in this place. So much goes on that you don’t even realize until you realize, you know what I mean? Go somewhere you can be free. Where you don’t have to think too tough about what you do before you do it. Find a place you can call home.’ He taps your shoulder once more. ‘You’re all done, young man.’

Outside, you stand and brush the tiny flecks of dark hair from the back of your neck. A light breeze grazes your freshly shorn head. You begin to untangle your headphones for your walk home, and your barber joins you on the stoop of his shop. He hums, watching traffic pass on this main road. From his pocket, he pulls a bag of tobacco, some rolling papers. He opens the tiny bag, and there’s the smell of something sweeter, something darker, heavy like musk but light as a cloud. You watch as he pinches the tip of a paper and, tucking the bag between his stomach and arm, lines the joint with a healthy serving. He rolls it back and forth, and lifts it to his mouth to seal, humming all the while. The song is a loop, a light number which dances up and down the scales. This is a ritual, you think, as he twists the end and pulls out a lighter. The joint sparks alight on the first try and your barber pulls smoke into his lungs.

He nudges you, arm outstretched, the joint an offering at the shrine. You take it from him and inhale as deep as it will go. You feel your brain go hazy and dark immediately.

‘Careful now,’ he says. ‘Not too quick. This one is strong. It’ll help you forget.’

He opens his mouth as you take another pull, and he begins to sing. The tune is so sweet, like that of a bird who has learned to