In the living room of my parents' house, there’s a picture of me at five years old taken at some random Olan Mills in Tampa, FL. I look sharp as hell in this picture. I’m talking shiny loafers you could see from miles away. My dress pants were pressed crispier than a Popeye’s drum stick on a Friday. My oxford shirt was perfectly tucked and my smile was bright enough to bring down satellites. I was the cleanest kindergartner around.

To top off the fit, sitting on top of my head was the freshest fade you’ve ever seen. The transition from bald black scalp to hair was impeccable. Whoever lined me up the day before was a level 100 Barber Mage who had bestowed upon me the perfect haircut. It actually sat on my head like a crown.

Looking at that picture, there are so many parts of that outfit that make me look like a five-year-old Morris Chestnut, but the fact of the matter is, that moment would be nothing without the shadow fade I'd been adorned with the day before.

The black man's relationship to his hair isn't something that's taken lightly. While black hair as a whole is inherently political, the power that black men channel through their hair is astounding at a minimum. It might sound like the most menial of task, but the entire act of getting a haircut for black men is equal parts empowering and therapeutic. It's a chance to remove yourself from the day to day token bullsh*t and engage yourself in the culture that raised you. Some of the most defining moments of my life have been preceded by a quick fade. Every graduation I’ve ever had from kindergarten to college began with a ritualistic trip to whoever my barber was at the time. Before I went on my first job interview, I not only got a fresh lineup, but got some of the best pre interview pep talks I could have ever received. It's much more than just a menial task that one checks off their daily to do list. It's an actual cultural experience.

And the feeling of self-assurance that comes when your haircut is actually finished is completely unmatched. Your barber tends to the final touches of your head like he’s plating a risotto on an episode of Master Chef, and finally removes the plastic tarp thats been shielding your outfit from rebel hairs. You get up, and after paying your monetary respects, walk out of the barbershop an entirely different man. Your shoulders sit a little broader than normal. Your strut is a little more powerful, rhythmic even. "Return of the Mack" plays softly in the background as you continue to go on about your day. There’s an energy that reinvigorates every time a black man gets a haircut, that makes him feel like he can conquer the world.

So, I want to dedicate this "ode to the fade" to all the barbers who have ever laid razor to skin. If you’ve ever lined up a man before his wedding, given a black toddler their first haircut or even just given a man a fade and a shave on a Saturday afternoon, you’ve been instrumental in maintaining an institution that has empowered black men for decades. You are one of many cogs that keeps the machine that is black culture running everyday. Your skill has emboldened men to be their best selves, and in a world that tries to diminish the light of black people everyday, you help to hold the torch that keeps that light shining.

And you keep us from looking dusty out here. So, thanks for that.



