Botched: Boyfriend? Barber? or Butcher?

The only person I ever found myself seriously romantically invested in during college was a boy who’s name I’ll disguise as Patrick, or Pat. Pat and I met on Grindr in February of 2016, and quickly found ourselves infatuated with each other. It would soon show that the infatuation was really from me, and that he had other things on his mind. However, in the two months of bliss we shared, I realized that I was living in a very interesting duality.

The duality was that I was completely committed to Pat’s happiness. His very presence caused me to clean incessantly, and make sure he was ok by asking repeatedly, and trying not to project the insecurities I had about dating other men, and one who was three years younger than me (so shallow). I was at his beck and call. I remember picking him up in the middle of the night from a late night of underage drinking. We had had an argument and I wasn’t supposed to be talking to him, however, after calling me several times, I conceded and found my way to pick him up. I was always there, even when he didn’t want me to be.

I hadn’t dated anyone since the unsuccessful relationship with a girl I left before graduating from high school. Most of my friends at this point were straight people who I had to overcompensate for to be able to feel accepted in heteronormative spaces. I was “popular” because my personality preceeded me, and Pat knew this, and was hesitant to continue our relationship for fear of it being too publicized. In the grand scheme of things, this would ultimately be why Pat and I broke up, along with infidelity, but I insisted that my emerging popularity on campus would not get in the way of me being a committed and faithful boyfriend, as well as one who would keep the people at the center of my popularity out of my relationship.

I realized that I was overcompensating in my relationship when I allowed my desperate need for a haircut, persuade me to allow Pat, an unexperienced barber (if that’s even the word to describe it), to cut my hair. I was probably broke, and didn’t have the money to afford an actual haircut. Or, maybe I did and just didn’t have a consistent barber at the time. Instead of doing the easy and proper research to find someone who had talent, my dumbass really allowed this nigga to put the one pair of clippers I had to my head.

The only reason I had a pair of clippers, was because I kept my face clean shaven, and my hometown barber recommended I get a set of Andis clippers to keep myself lined up and to shave my face with. These clippers had no guard, as they were mainly for your hairline, which is supposed to be sharp and crisp. I also only knew what guards meant because I had spent a significant time in barbershops. I also had a friend, Luke, who was in need of a haircut as well when I was still a student at Augusta. Somehow I got lured into cutting this boys hair, and I honestly didn’t do too bad of a job, or at least that’s what I thought. I did leave Luke with a little bit of a bald spot though, but just a small one. Luke told me to stick to my other talents, and found an actual barber, I wasn’t offended because why the hell did he ask my ass in the first place?

I guess it was because everyone had assumed that since I was gay that I could cut hair? Or that I got my haircut once a week because my barber came to cut hair out of my apartment? So in my pursuits of trying to stay crispy, I had began to overcompensate for other people because of the high it gave me from being able to provide the service.

Pat confidently put the Andis edger to my head and “zrrr”, there was a chunk of my hair in my lap. I decided to go blindly as my head was turned away from the bathroom mirror. I wasn’t confident at all, and had only tried to resist, while vehemently being assured by Pat that he knew what he was doing. He surely did not. I looked in the mirror and shouted “WHAT THE FUCK”, which caused all three of my very macho and hetero roomates to accend into my room and promptly being the jive. An institution in the black community is the barber shop. Hair salons too, of course, but for black men, the barber shop is a place of mixed emotions, full and empty conversations, and usually someone who is the definition of “faking the funk”. At barber shops, the end goal is always the same, for everyone, to go out looking better than you came. However, that night at my apartment, I looked better before Pat butchered my head.

Why was I so committed to this man? How had I allowed my allegiance to his happiness to spill over into the one part of me that I was for sure looked good most if not all of the time, my hair? Also, how did I have so much committment to him and not to myself? It’s crazy to look back on, but Pat cutting my hair showed me I wasn’t in the space to love someone else. I didn’t even love myself enough to go to the barber shop. I could’ve fucked up my own head, but being someone else’s guinea pig was so fun at the time I didn’t even see the residual hurt and pain I was simultaneously dealing with while being committed to Pat.

As I said before, my continuous growth and popularity on campus ended my relationship. Along with Pat cheating on me. The cheating was the real reason, but I couldn’t help but think about how I wasn’t good enough for Pat because I was busy being “The People’s Champion”. I thought about how my father’s life of public service lead to the main reasons him and my mother got divorced. I couldn’t see past the fact that I had committed my full self to someone who didn’t want it, and instead found ways to further my self-doubt by further involving myself with various people, places and things to distract me from committing to myself.

It it with all of this, I am here today. Except now, the committment issues in my life have started to spill over into my productivity and earning potential. I wasn’t able to commit to teaching, because the bookkeeper fucked up my money and I wouldn’t have an apartment. I wasn’t able to commit to the law firm becuase I was bored out of my mind, every second, of everyday. I wasn’t able to commit to my management position at a clothing store, because the resident cat marked his territory on the clothing, and my boss wasn’t able to see past her own reservations of revitalizing the store. And now, I haven’t even been able to commit to running my own on-line consignment store.

All of these instances of commitment issues have caused me to do some reflection. Maybe I am committing to the wrong things. Maybe I’m committed to the labels set before and on me. Maybe I just need to start, and commit to doing a little bit, every single day. Maybe I also need to learn not to commit. Actually, scratch that maybe. I know not committing is one of my biggest struggling. I also know I’m committed to the wrong things, because instead of being able to confidently and wholeheartedly commit to things, I absentmindedly do it, and regret it when I’m no longer committed.

It is these revelations and reckonings that will be the new subject of my writing. One thing I was committed to, at one time or another, was blogging. Honestly, I was committed to it because I knew I could write, but I also knew if I stayed committed, someone would be calling me to shoot a campaign for Gap. I’m realizing that my life has been me constantly being committed to everyone and everything, except my own happiness. I’m also happy to say that I love writing and blogging, as this is my process. I’m learning to commit to Rickey. No matter how personal, how hard, and how fucked up it may be for me.

As for my hair, I haven’t allowed anyone who isn’t a professional to touch my hair since. And I’ve restored my reputation for keeping my hairline crispy. More importantly, that situation taught me that if I’m going to commit to my style, looks and aesthetic, that I need to do it for me. And that regardless of how I look, as long as I’m committed to looking the best for myself, that’s all that matters.