A Word of Encouragement to All the Black Men Who Desperately Need Haircuts Right Now

I see you, fam. Really, I do.

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Trump’s Tariffs Might Stick Around. What Should We Buy Now?

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Trump’s Tariffs Might Stick Around. What Should We Buy Now?

Well, actually I don’t, like literally. Because of the social distancing thing and the statewide lockdown thing, I only leave home now for daily walks and maybe to take the kids to this open parking lot behind my house. So when I say I see you, I mean metaphorically. Spiritually and shit.

Anyway, I see you fam. Underneath the hats you’re wearing all the time now, and the hoodie you refuse to take off is the hair that COVID-19 has forced you to neglect. I’m hopeful that you’re still washing it. Still combing it. Still brushing it. But since those weekly trips to the barbershop are gone, so are those sharp lines, those exquisite twists, those luscious beards, and those transcendent blends. All replaced with Chewbacca’s ass.

Okay, so maybe it’s not that bad, yet. But you feel that way, right? You feel like Chewbacca’s ass, don’t you? Each time you look in the mirror—if you still have the courage to look in mirrors—you don’t recognize yourself. I mean, it’s you, kinda...but only if you were method acting as a Tallahassee meth dealer. Your face feels greasy and itchy—like you stuck it in a vat of lukewarm lamb grease—and it’s even crueler now because you’re told not to touch it or you’ll die.

You’re fiending to get back in that chair, thirsty for the cape wrapped over you, the clippers on your skin, the peroxide on your neck, and even your barber’s Hot Cheeto breath on your back. It’s funny what you miss when it’s gone. You’d even settle for a cut from bruh in the back, whose skills are so shaky that he’s only allowed to cut kids, white boys, and cops.

I know it’s hard, man, but just know we’re united in struggle. You know how we’re all only one paycheck away from being broke? Well, now we know that we’re all only one missed cut from being Kevin Durant. And the next time you look in the mirror, actually look at your mangy, busted face, and remind yourself that you are not your hair. You are not your hair. You are not your hair. And as long as you stay in the fucking house, it will get better.

(Or just learn how to cut your own hair.)