KayJay

I decided to get a haircut the day before boarding the Hanjin Boston.  As gorgeous as my lustrous locks had grown over the past year, I figured I’d better get a haircut in America, where I have some idea of how to tell the barber what I want, rather than wait until I’d gotten over to Japan or even China.  So, after donating the last of my camping supplies at the Goodwill Store on Broadway in downtown Oakland, California, I stood on the sidewalk and googled “barber” to see what was around.

As it turned out, the closest hit was Moler Barber College on Telegraph Avenue.  Having never been to a barber college before, I thought, What the heck?  Nobody’s gonna see me for two weeks anyway…

I get there and the place is teeming with young men, mostly black, most standing behind their respective chairs, some sitting in them, getting clipped.  A very tall and comely, young black woman stands behind the cash register at the counter in the center of the school, a single room with 24 cutting stations along the walls.  I later learn that she is the instructor, and is quite obviously in charge.  She accepts my payment of $7.00 and indicates that I should see the young man eagerly beckoning me toward his chair.

“I’m Kenny,” he says with a firm handshake, “but my friends all call me KayJay.”  (I know the spelling because it’s written on his clippers, which the students must supply themselves.)

We discuss the cut I want (really short) and where my part naturally falls (high and on the left).  KayJay has dark complexion, but seems to be the only student who is not African-American.  “Man,” he exclaims, “I’ve never cut this much hair before!”

“Well, get out the broom,” I say, “because you’re gonna need it.”

KayJay studies the situation intently, carefully planning where he’ll apply clippers and where he’ll do a scissor cut.  While he does so, I ask about the barber college business, an aspect of vocational training with which I have no experience.  KayJay doesn’t say whether any tuition is involved, so we don’t get into Pell Grants or student loans or any of that, but he does inform me that the $7.00 I paid up front goes entirely to the school, while he works solely for tips.  This was disheartening for two reasons: 1) it sounded like just another of the many scams that proprietary education uses to make huge profits on the aspirations of the less fortunate; and 2) I had just given all of my smaller bills to the instructor at the cash register.

KayJay begins with the scissors, meticulously nipping every last hair to perfection.  He cozies up to me so close that sometimes he’s actually leaning on my shoulder.  I think, Dude, you know, some guys are not going to like this…  But I don’t say anything.

We move on to discussing our lives, KayJay and I.  He’s only 20, but he’s been cutting hair for eight years already, taking after his father, who also cuts hair for a living.  When things in the neighborhood got rough a few years ago, his mom moved him and his six siblings out of Oakland, but KayJay’s back now to start a career.  He’s been at the barber college since February, so he’s about halfway through the nine-month certification program, which isn’t about learning cuts at all, he says, but all about how to sterilize the equipment and pass the exams.  When I tell him why I’m boarding a freighter bound for Asia in the morning, he says, “Man, I hear a lot of interesting shit in this place, but no one’s ever said they’re going to be teaching in China!”

With great sweeping flourishes, KayJay runs the clippers through my shoulder-length locks, which fall to the floor like autumn leaves.  Another student asks him a question, so KayJay moves over to his station to explain.  I say he “moves” because KayJay doesn’t really walk in the same way that you and I do.  I see now that his legs are extremely thin and misshapen, and he has to consciously place one foot in front of the other in order to move precariously across the room.  He hobbles back after a moment, leans on my shoulder again for support, and finishes the job, which we both agree is an excellent piece of workmanship.

I’m reminded of Eugene Dottery, my supervisor at PSI Institute, the vocational training center in downtown Indianapolis where 25 years ago I landed my first teaching gig, working with urban youth who aspired to get into the computer programming industry.  My first day on the job, Mr. Dottery made clear two things that I will never forget:

1. If you’re not 10 minutes early, you’re late; and
2. Every one of our students comes to us with a history.

You just never really know why someone is leaning on you.