When Jerome walked into the shop, shortly after it opened, he was still tall and fine, though scruffy—he appeared to be trying to grow a beard, but had managed only wild crabgrass patches along his cheeks.
Woman, cut my hair, he said with a smirk.
Tiny spun her chair and dashed herself onto it. She loved to hear the lumpy springs whine beneath the heft of her backside.
Hello, Jerome, she said. Can I help you with something?
All this formality now?
She didn’t respond, tried to make her eyes blank as if she’d never seen him before. She couldn’t hide everything, though; as she glanced at him she flashed a twinkle he took for a bit of residual love.
This is boring me, he said. I just want a cut. One of your perfect little tight cuts.
Well, I’m busy now. Jerome looked about the empty shop. Mariah, Tiny said, should be here in a few. Would you like me to make an appoint—
I don’t want a cut from some-damn-body named Mariah! I want you. No one makes me look as good as you do.
Tiny turned her head, reached for a magazine, and pawed through the pages with the bored, languid movements of a cat. How’s your brother? she said, finally.
Dude is doing great. Jerome smiled a little. Just great. It took Mom to die, but you should see him. Designer suit every day. This fucking little Dick Tracy hat. Looks fly on him. I’m proud of the guy. He needs a haircut, though. If you do it good to me—the haircut, I mean—I’ll recommend you.
How’d you even hear I was over here?
You think niggas not gon’ talk about a new shop full of lady barbers during the Hair Crisis? Now, you gonna cut me, or what?
I’m sorry, Jerome, but I have a few things to do now—
I’m trying to give your failing business some work.
Like I said, Jerome, Mariah—
You’re just going to repeat your bullshit over and over, huh? I already know how you do. Thought you would have matured by now, Tiny. Wanna take the little-girl route? Gotcha. It’s fine.
Jerome jutted out his lips, did a quick head nod, and watched his ex-lover as if silence could break her. Don’t worry, bitch, he continued, sweeping a stack of magazines to the ground and walking out the door. You’ll get yours. See you real soon.
* * *
After weeks of barber-chair emptiness and a floor sadly clean of shorn hair, Tiny arrived one morning to find a line of men—many sporting unkempt dandruff bushes—waiting outside.
I thought you opened at ten, called the first desperately uncombed man in line to a chorus of grumbles. It’s nearly noon!
You guys been here since ten? Tiny asked. As she unlocked the door, the men dazed her with numbers. Six in the morning, one said, his voice trembling with a mixture of embarrassment and pride.
I been here since five-fifty-five, a man whose hair was cut into an asymmetrical field of black said. He held the hand of a boy who looked everything like a little Jackson 5 Michael Jackson except for the gopher hole shaved into the center of his head.
But . . . but, it’s a school day, Tiny said.
And? the father replied. I take him out of school when he got a doctor’s appointment, too.
When she finished with the first man, he strutted out to cries of admiration and even applause. His hair—once dangerously overgrown—now glittered. Tiny slapped the chair with the cape and cried, Next up!
A tall Eritrean man with curly hair and a tall—shorter than the Eritrean, but still tall—man with an oblong head scrambled for the seat. As they tussled, a short dark-skinned man with salt-and-pepper hair and the twisted but unbecoming grin of a mischievous child strolled to the barber’s chair. A Ghanaian guy they called Doc pointed and laughed. Don’t forget to get the booster seat for my man, he said.
Quiet, you fool, the short man replied.
You folks rowdy, Tiny said with a smile. Don’t make me have to call the police to keep things quiet in here. How’d y’all even hear about my shop?
The short man grinned and pointed to the tall Eritrean.
I heard from Doc, the tall Eritrean said.
That first guy you cut today, Doc said. That loudmouth. I heard from him.
Hmm, Tiny grunted. He said someone I never even heard of told him.
All I know, the short man said, is that the Great Hair Crisis is over!
* * *
That day, Tiny cut as if possessed, head after head, each cut better than the last. She ignored the nonstop talk, the chatter about sports and politics and the proper way to beat young children. After hours of clutching the vibrating clippers, her hand trembled. Men kept coming, though. Man after man. Each with a different story as to how he’d learned of Tiny’s shop. Mariah showed up midafternoon to pick up the slack. The first man she cut approached her chair hesitantly, but when she finished he looked in the mirror and turned his head this way and that.
She better than Tiny!
Watch it! Tiny called, not taking her eyes off the head she was trimming.
As Mariah’s customer walked out, a man with dark glasses and a shining silver mane stomped in. He clutched a thick Bible so old it looked as if the pages had begun to sprout hair. He held his book aloft and cried, And De-li-lah said to Samson, Tell me, I pray thee, wherein thy great strength lieth, and wherewith thou mightest be bound to afflict thee. That’s from Judges 16:6. You men here giving away your strength, and for what? A nice haircut? Wrong is wrong is wrong is wrong in the eyes of the Lord.
Get out of my damn shop, Tiny called. Now! Get out!
Dale! the Bible man called to the customer in Tiny’s chair. I’m surprised at you. Real surprised. Your wife know you in here giving away your power?
Rev. Kimothy, Dale said. I . . . I . . . I’m tired of coming into your church looking like I just stumbled in off the street.
Kimothy? Tiny asked. Kimothy Beam who had the Mobile Cutting Unit?
I found God in prison, and you must be Delilah—that’s who you are.
I’ll be that, Rev.
Dale stood from the chair, half of his head shaved close, the other wild and unshorn. He held a fistful of twenties in his outstretched hand. I’m sorry, Tiny, he said. Real sorry.
That’s right, Rev. Kimothy said. Sorry as snake shit.
Naw, Tiny said. You sit your monkey ass down and keep your money. You ain’t telling no one Tiny did that to your head. Sit and you can rest your eternal soul in hell, Rev. Kimothy shouted. Dale stood paralyzed, looking back and forth between his reverend and his barber, until some guys from the back of the shop made Dale’s decision easier, snatching Rev. Kimothy by his arms and tossing him onto the sidewalk as he struggled and screamed, Lady barbers! Whoever heard of such a thing? The devil, that’s who! You gon’ burn! You gon’ burn! You gon’ burn!
Even as Dale sat back down in the barber’s chair, three Afroed men slipped quietly out the door.
Bunch of bitches, Mariah mumbled, staring into the sharp lines she had trimmed into her customer’s head. Bunch of little pussy-ass bitches.
This has been some day, Tiny muttered into Dale’s hair. Some day.
* * *
Late one night—say, nearly eleven—a man in a beautiful cream serge suit and a white panama hat came in just as Tiny finished her last head, a woman whose husband had recommended the shop. Tiny’s feet ached from standing, and she could feel her eyelids hanging heavy like curtains falling over her eyes. Ordinarily she would have turned the cream-suited man away, but he had pushed through a line of protesters out front. Rev. Kimothy and his new legion of followers had grown relentless. Fighting through those fools just to get a haircut, especially at this time of night, was a level of dedication that deserved a reward, Tiny thought. She glanced at him, didn’t take him in much. She yawned.
Tiny’s life was now love and hatred falling on her in equal measure. Accolades and applause, followed by bricks wrapped in Bible verses sailing through her window at night. The woman stood and stared into a handheld mirror, admiring her new fad
e from all angles. This shit right here fine, she said. Sonny trash now. From now on, you my barberess.
The Barberess. What a title. Tiny had thought about changing the shop’s name. That old name had grown stale. Barberesses, maybe. Maybe. It would look beautiful out front in red and white, Tiny thought.
Wow, you sure are deep in thought, Tiny heard a voice say. She looked up and the woman and her fade had left. The man with the cream suit took her place in the chair. He held the panama hat in his lap. It took Tiny a half second to recognize the face. It seemed to have aged since she’d last seen it. Jerome’s patchy beard had turned into a choppy bush, but it was definitely him, and this realization made Tiny close her eyes for what seemed to her like a long minute or two.
You thinking about what you gon’ do with all this mess, huh? he said, pointing to the unkempt pikes of locks jutting from his scalp. I never, never, ever take off this hat for any reason nowadays, unless I’m home or something. Got a new attitude, a new style, Tine. The hat allows me to conduct business without looking like a vagrant, but it’s havoc on me, I tell you. Havoc. This thing itches and flakes. My bush, I mean. These amateurs around here worse than they ever been. I’m ready to give anything a try, even a woman barber who ain’t you. Jerome chuckled. Mariah here? I’ll wait for Mariah if you want me to.
I’ve seen worse on you, Tiny said, combing out the coils. The prongs of the pick made a plink, plink, plink music. You better give me a big tip, making me revisit your big head.
When Tiny had finished, she took a straight razor and cleaned up the sprigs from Jerome’s cheeks and chin. She placed a warm, wet towel on his face. When she removed the towel, she nearly jumped back in fright. With his beard and sideburns trimmed, the smile Jerome flashed took on a sinister edge; he grinned as if he had already poisoned her and was just waiting for her to die.
How you work this magic, huh, babe?
There’s that evil look again, Tiny replied. Like you the devil come to burn me right here where I stand.
No, Jerome said. No. Of course not. I haven’t gotten a proper haircut in I don’t know how long. And you did something divine up there, Ms. Tiny. I just want to know what you got that them fools lack.
Tiny sighed. Look at my eyes, she said. I’m tired. I’m half ’sleep. I don’t have the energy to talk to you anymore tonight.
I must be half ’sleep, too, ’cause even when you was cutting me back in the day I thought it was a fluke. I thought it was ’cause you loved me. You clearly don’t love me now. You hate me, as a matter of fact, but you still the best cut around. You cut other people’s hair perfectly, too. You can’t be in love with all them people. How a woman cut hair like this, huh?
Men barbers got some kind of secret? Tiny said. They grip the clippers with they dicks or something?
I guess not. He chuckled again and looked down, shifted in his seat. You know, I bought this fancy suit from my brother.
How he doing?
He good, he good. He off that stuff. Not owing no thugs no money no more. He don’t be off disappearing no more. He good. I helped him apply to his new job selling these things at the haberdashery. Nigga had no experience selling anything—anything legal, that is. No experience being good at selling anything. None. I helped him ’cause I couldn’t lose nobody else after you and then my mother. I buy a lot of fancy suits with his discount. So do he. Getting high off your own supply is not a big deal when you selling suits, it turns out. But look, Tiny. My brother says I’m a fool for coming here.
Damn right.
You owe me, though.
How you figure?
You see that? Jerome pointed to the fools outside pacing with signs reading DELILAH! REPENT! and BITCHES AIN’T SHIT (AT CUTTING HAIR)! You don’t think that mess organized itself, do you? You think Rev. Kimothy’s dumb ass put all this together by himself?
You telling me you behind this mess? She scrunched her face for a second and then straightened her brow. Jerome, I knew you could be a goddam bastard, but—
Hold on, Ms. Tiny, Jerome replied. It’s not even like that. I was mad at you when you turned me away, but I was still proud, so I told every nigga I know about this shop. Thought Rev. Kimothy would be interested, since he used to cut hair. Figured he’d tell his congregation, and he did. It’s just that he told them to meet him out front to protest this new Delilah. Got to admit, though, Rev. Kimothy’s dumb ass is good for business.
Is he, though? I had a full shop before he started his nonsense. Now I got a hassle of men outside my door at all hours. Tiny sucked her teeth. She looked to the floor, shaking her head. Y’all men something else, boy. Something else. I don’t respect Rev. Kimothy or any of them stupid-ass niggas outside, but I can’t be mad at you for their dumb shit.
Yeah . . . He trailed off. But, look, you gotta tell me your secret.
Secret?
Every lady barber in here know how to do something extra special with her clippers.
You can’t be this much of an idiot, Jerome. There is no secret. Secret is I get a good night’s rest before I cut. Now I’m tired and don’t know if I can work magic tomorrow. That’s my secret. I got another secret: I’m going home. I’ll come early to clean up before the day get started. I need my beauty rest.
Let me walk you, Tine.
No thanks. I’m done with you again.
Gotta be careful, sis. All those fools out here—
Tiny turned out the lights and pushed open the door. With the black of the sky as a backdrop, and the bright bluish-white glow of the streetlight hovering above like a low-hanging moon, the faces of the men who rushed Tiny appeared to her as hovering, disembodied fright masks. The shouting sounded like sharp, high winds battering her eardrums. Tiny tensed and clutched her hands to her chest before she stumbled and nearly fell backward. She caught a glimpse of one of the signs. It featured an obscene drawing and read I LIKE MY HAIR LIKE I LIKE MY JUNK, RAW AND UNCUT. The man who held the placard had a bush that sat atop his head like a woolen black cube. His face looked grotesque and plastic. Jerome shoved the forehead of the block-headed man and snatched at Tiny’s arm. He pushed his way through the protesters, who had suddenly quieted, offering no resistance, giving Tiny and her guardian space to escape into night’s darkness.
When they got to her house, Tiny looked up into her protector’s eyes and examined his freshly shaved face. Stray hairs dotted his cheeks and his forehead like black snowflakes. She looked away.
That was quite impressive, she said.
Well, he replied. I told you to let me walk you. You gon’ to let me walk you tomorrow?
Jerome’s face hovered over hers, a different sort of fright mask, fearful instead of terrifying. This time she didn’t turn away. Maybe, she said.
Look, Ms. Tiny, you owe me.
I hope this isn’t your corny way of trying to get a kiss or something, ’cause we too old to be speaking in riddles.
You can kiss me if you want, Jerome said. I’ll take that. But what I really want is the secret. How y’all lady barbers cut like that, huh?
Tiny kissed his cheek. That’s not so wrong, is it? she asked herself.
A lady barber’s got to keep her secrets, she told him. What if I give away my secret and the result is you can’t get no more good cuts, huh?
I’ll take the chance.
There is no secret, ’Rome—how’s that for a secret? She watched his eyes as they began dimming in sadness. I cut with love. That’s it. Tiny said this because she assumed that was what Jerome wanted to hear. His eyes grew sadder still; they rimmed with an unbearable melancholy that she had seen before. Tiny looked down. She wanted it to stop.
Lye, she said. It’s lye. Red Devil Lye. That’s the secret. Makes the hair manageable. Mix in some eggs and potatoes and you got good old-fashioned conk juice. That’s the shit I be spraying on your head. Makes anyone with a little skill cut with magic. Even a lady barber.
I knew I felt my head burn a little, Jerome said. I knew it. I’ma keep this
secret close to my heart, Tine. Jerome blathered with joy as Tiny walked slowly into her house.
* * *
Tiny woke one morning with the urge, just a throbbing and unrelenting urge, to change the name of the barbershop to Delilah’s. She hired a woman to paint a new sign, and the woman worked at it all day. Tiny hung it after the last customer left. When Jerome met her at the shop that night he took a look at the sign and said, You’re such a troublemaker. This was after Claudine had left for good, unable to handle the crowds, the hatred, the men who shouted vile threats and called her bitch, as if it were the name her mother had given her. Tiny understood. She welcomed a rotating cast of women, each a better barber than the previous one. The new woman would claim Claudine’s chair and then disappear after a week or so, afraid of the angry men outside. And with DELILAH’S on the front of the window, no one called her Tiny anymore. Tiny became D. As the new name took hold, she smiled secretly, especially when Mariah bought her a black apron emblazoned with a bright-red D.
Each morning brought a new influx of men. A madness of men. So many men. Since there were more men than seats, the men gladly stood. Men bursting out of the little shop, sometimes pouring onto the sidewalk. Everywhere Tiny turned she saw men. Men who had previously protested, once yelling, now quiet as sheep. Sheep-men walking upright to be shorn. These men said things like Real men, Tiny, real men can admit when they wrong. But, really, it was that they’d observed other men, their friends who were now shining, beautiful men because of their perfectly cut heads. Tiny and Mariah and whoever took the third chair couldn’t cut fast enough to keep up with all those men.
The Best American Science Fiction and Fantasy 2020 Page 24