Abrunette with hair past her shoulders walks in, speaks to the front desk, and takes a seat next to me in the designated waiting area. To our right, a row of four chairs occupied by other customers are lined with tables, each of them scattered with scissors, razors, hair dryers and other shiny metal tools of various sizes and shapes. Each chair is being tended to by a woman. When one of the chairs finally opens, the barber calls the brunette next to me over. Once seated and wrapped with a plain black cape, she’s asked what she wants for today. “I want to go short,” she says without skipping a beat, the curl of a confident, excited grin tugging at the corner of her lips. “Real short.” The barber smiles widely, the sign of an immediate understanding sparking between them. After ironing out the details and swiping through a few photos on a smartphone, the scissors come out. I watch as each clump of wispy brown strands drops to the floor at her feet. By the end of the appointme
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