"How you want it boss," the barber asks as I sit in the chair.
"Just an even cut all the way around, 2 guard and a lineup on the beard," I'm basic.
"Nah, I was talking to my girl on the phone," he says to me. "I'll talk to later babe, gotta do a cut real quick."
He slams the clippers down onto my head and starts cutting. Okay, does he know what kind of cut I want? Why is this man being so damn rough with my head. He is killing my neck. I think I've got whiplash. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The fuck did he do to my beard? It took me years to grow this? He just, oh my god. I wanna cry. I can't cry in this barbershop. Is that a razor blade? Why did he put this blade on my neck, I can't even move. Oh lord.
"You done," he finishes, but doesn't brush the hair off, spray oil sheen or even use the alcohol.
"Thanks," I had him a twenty and a five.
"No tip?"
"This isn't what I asked for."
I just walk out of the shop. The cold February air hits my cheeks and makes me shiver. I went from a luxurious beard to frat boy chinstrap in moments. My head is cold too, this is not a two guard. I can't do this anymore. I'm growing dreads.
