Introduction: I was blessed to get one of the best barbers at the barber shop. To judge by appearances, he and I could not have been more different. He was part Hispanic and part Black. I am thoroughly of northern European stock. He had a deep and rich skin color that reminded me of trips with my dad’s family to Sarasota, FL in the 1980s where the wind carried scents of coconut oil. His skin was that tone of rich brown one might associate with Brazil. I have the pigmentation of Anglo-Saxons who prefer English rains over Italian gloamings. He had tattoos all over his arms and hands and neck. I am the last guy that would ever get a tattoo. He spoke with the rhythm of hip-hop lyrics and dressed like one who trafficked in that lifestyle. I speak like an English literature teacher. But here’s where it all arrested me. When he saw me, he said, “Hey, Chap. How you doin’?” Even though I was not in uniform, he recognized me and was kind. He knew I was a chaplain and he had launched the conversation.

I told him how to shave my head and in no time at all, I was all done. He held up the square plastic-handled mirror for me to check my cut at the end, and I nodded and smiled and said, “You’re fast, brother. You’ve done this a lot. I appreciate it.”

We walked over to the register. I handed over my debit card and paid and tipped him generously. As he was running my card, he told me of his plans for the eveving. “I gotta go get my son and take him to the ballgame. Then I gotta get my daughter from her mom’s so she can stay with me tonight, Chap.”

“You have two kids, is that right?”

“Yeh, two. But dawg, they keep me so busy, Chap.”

“I hear you,” I said.

“Have a good one, Chap, and thanks,” he said.

“Take care, brother,” I said, taking my debit card. I walked out from the barber shop and felt the air conditioning cool on my freshly shaven scalp.

As I exited the barber shop and walked out to my car, I thought of him, of how he shared about his two children, of how he and the mother of the children are now ostensibly separated, of how busy he would be with dad duties after he leaves the barber shop.

He and I were so different by appearances–he with his inked skin and hip-hop lifestyle and the cadence of his speech that reflected the musical styles he relished, etc.

But we are both dads. We both love our children. We both work to provide for those we love. We both enjoy music.

I felt a sudden guilt and sadness over my former initial discomfort when I focused on all the tattoos and appearances, and I had been afraid I’d not know the handshake regimen he used with some of his other customers.

But he was so kind, and he simply operated out of his world. As did I. He was the better person. And now, I will seek him out for my next trip to the barber shop. He may not know it but I learned from him today.