“If there is one thing I don’t like, it’s a man with hair growing down the back of his neck. It’s time for you to get a ‘line.’”
That was just one of the numerous sayings my mother told me as I was growing up — one of the many rules she taught me about what she thought it meant to be a man. “A man should always smell good,” and “A man should always have change in his pocket,” she would preach. But whenever I heard her comment on my hairline, I knew it was time for an adventure. It was time for a trip to Sears’ Barbershop.
Sears’ Barbershop was located just a few blocks from our house, down High Street before it was renamed MLK Drive, so my mother would hand me enough money for the haircut and send me out the door to take care of “man’s business.” From the age of 10 until I started driving, I would walk down the slight slope of High Street, past Ish School, with my only concern being the possibility of running into an unfriendly dog or two.
Sears’ Barbershop was a small establishment. When you walked in the door, immediately on the right stood an old-fashioned Coke machine — the type that gave out soft drinks in hard glass bottles. And then there was usually a full row of seats that lined the right-side wall. Above the seats were coat racks, community announcements and a pinup calendar I often pretended not to look at. On the other side of the shop were four barber chairs. The barbers were all older men: Sam, whose chair was closest to the front window of the shop, was my barber. In the time of big Afros, Sam always lined up my hair so no matter how big the ’fro got, I still looked neat. Next to Sam was Mr. Sears, the owner of the shop. During the many years I went to the shop, I never saw Mr. Sears cutting anyone’s hair, but he was always at the center of everything happening in the shop. His respected authority set the tone and atmosphere. It was that atmosphere that made a trip to Sears’ Barbershop so special for me as a young boy. It was an atmosphere filled with the “man-talk” I didn’t experience anywhere else in my life.
Listening to those barbershop dialogues and debates I leaned about the community, what was happening and why; I learned how women should be appreciated, respected and never completely understood; I learned about politics, to speak your mind, but also to be open to listening to others. In other words, I learned about manhood. I learned those things that my mother, as a widowed woman, could not teach me. I now think she knew that, and she knew sending me to Sears’ Barbershop would help me learn more of the expectations and responsibilities that came along with being a man. The shop was not just about hairlines; it was a place for lessons I only now as an adult appreciate.
Today Sears’ Barbershop is no more. The barbers — like Sam and Mr. Sears — have all passed away, and the shop itself was destroyed in the March 1999 tornado that tore through south Little Rock. All that’s left now is an empty lot and the memories of lines and lessons that helped a boy become a man.