LittlePurpleCow Productions

Stephanie,
I immediately thought the same as I viewed your post, there is something and the words escape me about the barber shop that I observed at a younger age.
Initially my father always promised me a Dr. Pepper as a reward for going but later on I noticed other actions and relationships in the barbershop. It was an educational, entertaining and comforting place where I saw men acting in totally comfort and oneness. Whether the conversation was political, sports or religion I always picked up something. It was there where I first witnessed my stoic, pensive Air Force father become an ordinary person. I noticed other men seeking his advice and support. It was during that time that I was just an observer and had not earned my right to join in unless I was invited. It was a rite of passage when I was old enough to go by myself and become actively involved. I will never forget that feeling.

I am guessing that at an earlier time it was one of those places an African-American could congregate other than church and truly communicate as well as relax. As if it was total darkness void of any color.

I feel the same when I take my sons today and I am sure they felt the same as i did at their age.

Barbershops transcend geographic boundaries and just from your photo can almost feel the connection and togetherness from that moment.

I heard once that the barbershop was the poor man's mental therapy physically and mentally. There is nothing that creates a positive impression upon oneself than a cut and open conversation.

M

stunning shot. the perspective is so nice. Love the idea of this being a series. Love it. So many stories at the barbershop.

What struck me at first is how similar this scene is to one in any small town in America. A barbershop is a barbershop.

When I lived in Belgium, I regularly had my long curly hair cut by a Moroccan barber, who worked in a shop with his brother. In three years, I only saw one other woman as a client there. Waiting my turn, I would watch how meticulously he crafted the haircuts, even those that appeared simple to the untrained eye. I had no idea there was so much artistry to a buzz cut. And, unlike America, the clientele moved easily between African and European and those who shared mixed ancestry. Often when he'd tilt my head back into the basin to wash my hair, I'd catch the faintest scent of garlic on his hands and imagine what it was he'd prepared in the kitchen...