Barbershop. Six black men, one black woman. Two barbers, and one half of the ownership present – the Van, but not the Frank. There is something I love about the barbershop…my grandfather was a barber, though I had only been to his shop once or twice, but something about the smell of Barbasol that always reminds me of him. The sound of clippers. The snikt-snip of the scissors. My grandfather could never cut my hair right, he wasn’t used to its particular and peculiar maelstrom of directions. Mr. Singleton, with his shaky hands, he did the best he could, but still, it was never quite right. After one bout with Mr. Singleton, I wore a hat all day in Mrs. Morgan’s class. Lemon, Mr. Singleton’s boy, well, he could cut anyone’s hair…buzzzzzzzzzz-buzzzzzzzzzz-snikt-snip-snikt…so yeah, today, I got a trim…my hair is still all wild, but now its tasteful at the sides. Like I have Adobe Photoshop™ Edges 4.0 for Flowbee™. Rico. Suave.