The Washington Heights barber wraps a young Latino in a cape emblazoned with day-glo palm trees, and nods into the mirror. They’re both silent and serious, the only sound is the boxing match on the wall-mounted television set. The young man is about to get a shape-up, a term referring to the removal of any hairs outside of a perfectly-drawn hairline, which creates an airbrushed look popular with many Latin men.As the youth settles into his chair and briefly explains the desired shape of his mustache, I realize this is a ritual, a way for men to be with each other, the way women relax into the competent hands of their manicurists, and I suddenly think back on meeting my Japanese father’s family in New Mexico for the first time many years ago.I remember noticing the my half-brother’s flawless hairline, and finding it had nothing in common with the fuzz that framed my own mixed features. I kept staring at it, trying to figure out how it could be, and pondering my obsession with touching the hair of any other half-Asians I met, trying, I suppose, to figure out my own identity. I compared my straight black tresses to my half-sister’s shiny brown curls, and recall alternately reveling in and despairing at the complicated composition of my “heritage”.
The barber is now carving out a perfect edge by trimming all hairs to a quarter of an inch with an electric buzzer, then flips open a straight razor and attacks the fuzz daring to grow outside of the shape (mostly around the temples, it seems). “Old school”, he assures me proudly, pointing at the blade.One day my half-brother had grabbed me by the hand conspiratorily, promising to solve the mystery, and so I’d come to sit in on this ritual for the first time. I’d watched in silence as the evidence of his heritage was cut away, shaping and reshaping a new identity that perhaps better matched his surroundings, making him look more like his Latin friends.Back in the Heights, the barber trims the young man’s mustache and sideburns (both skinny, as per fashion). He is almost done. He gently sweeps the young man’s shoulders with a brush, disinfects the freshly razored skin with something that smells like essence of cinnamon, and holds up a mirror for his client. The young man is satisfied, and tips the barber. !Hasta la proxima vez! They’ll meet again in a few days, when nature has once again messed up perfection.To get a shape-up next time you’re in New York City, visit Nick at Magic Touch Barbers on 181st Street.
This article was published in GDI magazine.
