How To Cut Your Own Hair In Prison

 

The first person who offered to cut my hair in prison told me he charges two dollars. He assured me that was a good price. I remember paying him with three packs of ramen and two bags of fireball candy. Then, I took a seat on a chair in the day room and this guy goes to work on my hair using nothing but the electric beard trimmer from commissary. The whole time, his friend is hanging out right next to us and my barber keeps telling him stories that disturb me, like how he intentionally messes up some peoples' hair just a little bit, and that he uses the same trimmers to shave his balls.

For a while after that I decided to cut my own hair. I just buzzed my head over the toilet in my cell, which was free, and I didn't have to deal with all the drama of hiring an amateur barber. Also, I could leave my shirt off and avoid getting hundreds of tiny hair fragments embedded in the fabric. When I explained these benefits to a man next to me in the medication line, the guy who first cut my hair heard me talking and came over to confront me. He warned me not to get slick with my mouth, and I just let him finish talking.

Cutting hair is part of the prison economy, complete with a zealous handful of barbers anywhere you go. So while I never hired that first barber again, I was eventually convinced to get my hair cut. Whenever someone cut my hair it was always the same style, the fade. It's easy to understand why barbers like to do fades. It can be done without scissors, it looks good, and most importantly it only lasts a week or two. People who can afford it will keep coming back to keep that fade looking fresh.

For the last several years I spent in there, I was friends with my barber. He did a good job, and only charged me a bag of Doritos. So for the time I was living in that prison I enjoyed a nice-looking haircut. At a certain point I began to feel a sense of loyalty that made me keep buying haircuts even though I was starting to contemplate shaving it all off. It was a thought that kept recurring every time I looked in the mirror and inspected the spots where my hair was getting thin. I mentioned this to my barber one day, and he brushed it off like I was being ridiculous. He grabbed the top of my head, moved it from side to side and said, “You're still alive.”

That chapter of my prison bid was something of an oasis that, like my hair, required only maintenance. The routine became comfortable, until it felt like an unending cycle. When I requested a transfer to a minimum security facility I didn't expect my barber to understand. He didn't have much to say about it. As I leaned over to give him a half-handshake half-hug, I could almost see my reflection in his shining bald head. As I walked off toward the door he yelled out, “Don't drop the soap!” and we both laughed.

After that, I went back to cutting my own hair.