MUSTAFA AT THE
There were candy wrappers blowing
around out front, and two young girls
had just strolled in. They didn't belong.
You knew that - this was one of those
new sorts of men's haircutting places,
with the funny, man-cave names like
'Another Cut', or 'Made Men', or
'Clip Jobs.' No meaning, just a
posture; where men will be tough
and boys will be men. All that and in
an instant. The place was crowded,
like a gym guy's sauna. It was pretty
obvious what was going on. No matter,
I guess you just pay more for the extras.
The guy Mustafa was cutting; he eyed
me watching. I wasn't a customer,
just outside by the liquor store
doorway. One of those movies like
'Trading Places' or '48 Hours' or
something where for Eddie Murphy
getting some 'trim' meant getting laid.
Too much complication, all that, for
me, and it adds a whole other level
to 'Made Men' as well. I don't need.
When he came out for a smoke, I
said, 'Tell me something, 'Stafa; how
you running this place with a good
conscience?' He smirked, and said
slyly, 'It's not what you do, my friend;
you see, it's more how you do it. I
could burn down the woods, but
you'd never find the match.'