Back to the Barbershop

After international travel, the barbershop welcomes me home.

The sight of people seeing what weeks and months abroad did to a once fresh cut is undeniable.  The shaking heads, the attempt to look away, or even the open laughter. One dude called me "Wolfman". At the barbershop, you get it all.  Where else would you go though?

As my prophet beard disappears, the soothsaying heats up.  This past time, it was LeBron James' career.  Followed by a conversation about Greek Yogurt.  "You still on Dannon, man?  Greek Yogurt is where it's at!  That creamy stuff on top.  Get out of here, son!"  I can't say I expected that one.  For the record, I grew up on Dannon and my flag is planted there.

It's funny to be back with the crew.  The barbershop in Uganda was small, quiet, and if I'm honest - the only talking was someone proselytizing someone else.  The music was America's finest hip-hop.  Bit of a strange scene.  

My barbershops...they remind me of being a ten year old with a Dad that protected my head as if it carried a crown.  My barbershops.  They remind me of how family can work.  Is it a shop that's multi-generational.  That's spittin' wisdom?  That monitors the TVs and the music based on customers?  Or do babies rock out to Rack City?  My barbershops, man.

It's all up to the shop, up to the family.  Family decides how we live.  

I'll be there, though, because my beard's getting long and I trust wisdom stays even after the cut.