A little too much off the back

T. has been cutting my hair for nearly 10 years and knows my head like nobody else in Huntsville. She has every curve, trouble spot, bald spot, and protuberance of my ample 7 ¾ hat-sized head down cold.

Even on occasions when she might be unsure of the “way I like it”, she asks me, but she also checks my “dossier” on her phone just to be sure: Thin, but longer on top (my hair grows up like a beehive, not out), shorter on the sides, with an even shorter taper down to my neck.

Over the years, she has been a consummate pro and the best barber I’ve ever had. That is, as long as her own head is on straight.

Her moods are unpredictable. She is silent and morose at times, chatty and expansive at others. I always try to “check the temperature” as I enter her shop and sit down in the chair. Within a couple of minutes, I usually have a good read on the weather conditions and proceed accordingly, bantering and joking around with her if she dictates, remaining silent and only responding to what she says if that’s the mood of the day.

But regardless of the atmosphere, her haircuts have been like quality controlled Toyotas rolling off an assembly line—nothing flashy, but stylish enough—reliable, and consistent.

Last Friday’s haircut started off fine. There was a lot to talk about: Hurricane Helene (“We really dodged a bullet!”), the classic rock songs that were playing in the background, trading hot tips and impressions of current movies and TV series. It being a fall Friday in the South, we eventually arrived at college football.

I never bring up politics or religion in face-to-face conversations except with friends who are like minded or at least open to civil discussion. It’s not just a cliché, it’s a survival strategy.

In Huntsville, a dab of light purple in a deep red state, in order to grease the wheels of society and commerce, there is an implicit understanding—don’t talk politics, and if you find a conversation is turning that way, look for a way out.

T. at times likes to nibble around the edges of politics without taking a full bite, so I knew she leaned right, but I wasn’t sure how far. On Friday, she started probing and poking the perimeter again as we talked about the next day’s Alabama vs. Georgia game in Tuscaloosa.

“I’m sure that’s going to be another one of their ‘Ali-Frazier’ knockdown, drag out fights,” I said.

“Oh, for sure,” T. replied. She’s probably 10-12 years younger than me but old enough to understand the reference.

She paused, then proceeded, “You know, I really wish he just wouldn’t go.”

The small hairs on the back of my neck bristled. I knew she was talking about DJT’s plan to attend the game. I also knew this could spell trouble, but I felt we were still standing on common ground.

“I agree,” I said, “Game Day traffic in Tuscaloosa is bad enough without adding a large motorcade and even more security than normal,” I replied. Leave it there and start looking for a way to change the subject, I told myself.

But T. proceeded. “It’s the security I’m worried about,” she said. “I’m afraid somebody will try to take him out again.”

I felt the sharp tug of DJT’s “black hole” gravitational pull. I searched for a reply while simultaneously looking for an escape route.

“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I replied. “Even in a regular game the gate security is very tight, metal detectors, police everywhere, and tomorrow it’s going to be even tighter.”

“Sure,” she replied, “but there are ways around all that.”

Stop. Quick, think of another topic!

A catchy, classic rock tune was playing in the background, but for the life of me I couldn’t think of the band’s name or any of the other songs they had recorded.

Then, my memory started to kick in, letters turning over “Wheel of Fortune” style inside my increasingly aerated head, words forming on the tip of my tongue. But it was too late.

“You know, if she wins, then we’ll know the system is really rigged,” she said.

I assessed my predicament. I had a cape on, and she stood behind me, comb in one hand, scissors in the other. She had finished the top of my head, but she was still working on the sides and back.

There was no way out. I was about to become both hostage and hostage negotiator, trying to deescalate the situation while securing my own release. I took a deep breath and accepted my fate.

“How will you know that?” I asked as calmly and evenly as I could.

“Because of TikTok. The mainstream press will never tell you this, but everyone on there hates her!”

“You know, once those social media algorithms start to figure out what you like to eat, they feed you even more, regardless of which side you’re on,” I replied.

Her voice rising, she replied, “Oh no, I’ve ‘liked’ posts from both sides, but I still get more anti-H than any other!”

Her assertion was neither airtight nor statistically rigorous, but I wasn’t going to press the issue. But I didn’t have to, because she was off and running.

She told me that H. is “not really black” and neither is her father. “He is so light skinned. He’s not really Jamaican, in fact, he wasn’t even born there.”

Those last two statements aren’t true, but rather than disagree or opine on the weird fixation that humans (especially white people) have with skin color, I asked, “Have you ever seen the picture of her father holding her when she was a baby?”

“No.”

“Well, check it out. For many people of all races, especially those who with more melanin, their skin color can change with age. Hardly any of us have the same pigmentation when we get older.”

She thought about that for a moment, then moved on.

“Speaking of pictures, you know the one with her ‘grandmother’ in that book? That’s not really her grandmother. I mean, it’s a small lie, but it does make you wonder.”

I didn’t know the picture or book she was talking about, but the juxtaposition of an alleged “small lie” with The Big Lie nearly caused me to choke.

I looked in the mirror as she stood behind me, trimming the sides of my head and making her way toward down the back, pausing every now and then to gesticulate madly. It was a full-on QAnon and MAGA firehose now, so I stayed quiet and very still.

I started going to T. because my previous barber talked nonstop, not only about politics and conspiracy theories, but to anyone else in the shop. Her haircuts were great at first, but over time, she became less focused on her work and the quality became spotty to the point that I never knew what my hair was going to look like when she finished.

T. had never been like that. Until now.

As she unclipped my cape, she repeated her assertion that many more people supported DJT than H. and that she couldn’t understand how the polls showed them essentially tied. I, too, wondered that, but for different reasons.

Before I stood up, I said, “You know, T., there’s a lot of noise out there. Some of it’s true signal, but a lot of it is just static. Until the votes are counted, none of us is really going to know what the situation is. And regardless of what happens, we’re all going to have to accept things and move on, right?”

She was silent. I took advantage of the gap and looked down at the floor. Laughing, I said, “Wow! Look at all that hair! You really went to town!”

Yesterday, I was sitting with S. when she asked, “What happened here?

“What do you mean?” I asked. “Where?

“On your neck.” She took a picture and showed it to me.

At the center of my hairline, normally a smooth, sweeping arc conforming to the curvature of my neck, was a nibble.

It wasn’t a full bite, but it was a little too much off the back.