Talking Mirrors
“The barbershop was a pop-up shop. It was a market. It was where the sages practiced their wisdom and told stories of niggas from around the way. It was one place I’d never seen anyone die.”
“Boy, quit all that moving.”
Mejia spoke in a stern yet hushed voice. Her words cut through the loud barbershop banter, and once Zaire received them, he stilled his body. Mr. Stone smiled, cut off his clippers, and handed him a dry napkin to wipe his tears. After spinning his chair, Mr. Stone took a sip of a Sprite that’d been sitting on his counter and adjusted the volume of the TV just enough to hear the football game over the noise.
It was the edge of Winter. The Earth seemed graceful. The air, less violent and gentler to our skin, yet harsh on our bones. Football season was underway, and the barbershop was loud. On a random Friday, it was either a symposium or a lecture hall. The barbershop was a pop-up shop. It was a market. It was where the sages practiced their wisdom and told stories of niggas from around the way. It was one place I’d never seen anyone die. In this liminal space, I often witnessed humanity at its most tender and expressive. Even a devil could sit in one of these chairs and act like it knew where it was.
Mr. Stone grabbed Zaire’s head and tilted it forward to finish the back. Mr. Stone had strong hands with darkly shaded knuckles. Those knuckles that could knock your words and pride back down your throat. His forearms were scarred and solid. Like most men in the neighborhood who hung out at the barbershop, his body was built like one that had been sacrificed. He was survival, embodied. At 12:00 pm, a young man who looked just like him would bring him a brown bag with what I believe to be food. He would quietly walk in, exchange a few words, and leave. Zaire continued to sniffle, but he would not move. His mother’s words had struck and tied him up.
Mejia’s stare shot across the room and locked onto her son. She was always gentle with Zaire. She raised him with only her voice and not her body, like a guiding spirit. Without touching Zaire, she could lay into him, and he would smoothen out beneath her weight. As Mejia saw Mr. Stone preparing alcohol, she grabbed her purse and approached his chair. I watched as a few of the men lost their thoughts and stared when she sauntered across the room, but she paid them no mind.
Mejia grabbed Zaire’s face. Her index finger and thumb pressed into his cheeks as she twisted his head back and forth. Her austere expression slowly drifted to a smile before she kissed her son on the forehead. “How much do I owe you?” She asked. Mr. Stone stared down at Zaire and handed him a mirror before replying, “Just gimme $6.”
Zaire stared into the cracked glass and blew air into both his cheeks. The mirror was old and worn out. It whispered to the boy;
I've seen many faces
Some of them looked
Just like you.
I’ve stared into the eyes of killers.
I done seen dealers.
I done healers.
I done seen pastors.
I done seen athletes.
I done seen everything
You ain’t seen, child.
I’ve seen dead men,
Before they died.
Sitting right here, in this chair.
Told by: Kwon
