Hey, Welcome to episode 4 of WORKS, the podcast where we explore the inner workings of creativity, one artist and one work at a time.
Today, I’m sitting down with Marc Typo, the writer behind the incredibly sincere publication Raising Myles. Marc writes weekly letters to his young son, and we readers are lucky observers playing a small part in the magic of that intimacy. It’s brave work, or what Marc calls heart work, because he opens himself up in a way that’s a model for fathers around the world.
So it goes without saying that our talk covers a lot of ground, but at the centre of this episode is Marc’s piece Barbers, Hairlines, and Balding.
I first encountered this letter last year, and it’s the perfect example of what makes Marc’s writing so special. So please read the letter and make sure to tune into the episode.
In our conversation, we also talk about another of Marc’s pieces, Just In Case God Pulls the Plug and Presses the Stop Button, so make sure to check that one out, too.
On a personal note, I came away from this conversation with a fresh perspective — especially with where I’m taking Season 2 of One Word. And I just wanted to thank Marc again for sitting down with me on Works.
- T
Barbers, Hairlines, and Balding
My Journey of Letting the Hair I Never Really Had Go
13 Weeks Old
Dear Myles,
I started balding years ago. Coupled with a receding hairline, that could have made me and Vegeta distant cousins – I should have let it all go way before I did, but my barbers and I held on for as long as we could.
I have had the same barber since middle school. When I went away to college, I had no choice but to let a friend cut my hair - he wasn't a barber, but I trusted him. When he was done, there was an instant pang of regret, and it only got worse from there. But finding a barber during my undergrad years in Buffalo, NY was tough. When I finally found someone who was great, he was unreliable - probably trying to juggle his coursework and this side hustle himself. I'd walk into the barbershop fully expecting him, only to see his chair empty. After a few of these disappointments, I settled for his colleague.
My first and last time at this particular barbershop was the day I settled for his colleague. He talked between every follicle of hair he cut, held a slice of pizza in one hand, and watched a football game all at the same time. I couldn't say anything to him – he was huge and held a razor under my jawline to shape me up. I just took it all on the chin, not the razor, though, just the experience. By the time I left him, you could probably draw the McDonald's logo along my hairline.
When I graduated college and moved to New Jersey, my barber and I reunited. Even though he was in Brooklyn, I took two buses and two trains to see him. He was cutting in his basement now. When he first saw me, he gave me that same look when someone finds out they've been cheated on. He laughed, asked what happened, and because this was business, he still continued to cut me, and did the best he could with the hairline I walked in with. That man was a magician. He masterfully blended my hair where my hairline used to be and left me feeling redeemed.
There's a feeling when a Black man gets his haircut; he grows two inches, his muscles fill with water like he just downed some creatine, and his walk makes Jesus walking on water look laughable. After he leaves his barber's chair, he is the most confident man on the planet. Take it from your father, who never even really had the genetics for a decent hairline - even I felt like Steve Urkel, but I came out feeling like Stephan when the barber showed me the mirror.
But two buses and two trains, and paying twenty-something dollars every two weeks got too damn hard, it was time to face the facts – it was time to let what was left of it all go. I went to my cousin's, who's an excellent barber in Jersey and ironically bald himself too. "I'm ready," I told him. He gave me that look that said, "Say no more." He cut everything off. Before I got a chance to look in the mirror, I ran my hand against my scalp. The barrier between the skin and my head was gone. I could never lie after that day, in fear I was so bald even my thoughts would be visible.
I got home that day, two inches taller, muscles filled with water, freshly gliding like Jesus on water, but on concrete, excited to show Mommy what I'd done. When she first saw me, she looked at me just like the way a person reacts when they find out you cheated on them again - her jaw dropped, she put her hands on her chin, and turned her face. She couldn't believe it. She ran her hand across my scalp with such tenderness and mouthed some words like she was praying. I had to remind her that I didn't just go through a round of chemotherapy; I just cut all my hair off. Eventually, she got used to it; she had no choice. There was no going back.
It made no sense to keep going to a barber now. Taking too many modes of transportation and paying too many twenty-something dollars for someone to joyride with clippers around my scalp every week - I broke up with all my barbers. I invested in an Andis Trimmer T Liner because razors left the back of my neck looking like Martin Lawrence after he fought Tommy Hearns. I attempted to cut my hair using the T Liner myself, but my lack of hand coordination and the mirror reversal made it seem like I was giving Kanye West some competition - that's when Mommy took over.
You're never supposed to look your barber in the eyes while they are cutting your hair – it's a well-known taboo, something you just don't do. Such an action could have unspeakable consequences. I never dared to look my barber in the eyes until now.
I love it when Mommy is lining me up, and our eyes lock – an experience most men will never have. She's gentle and precise, leaving me feeling like the most confident man in the world – two inches taller, my muscles filled with water like I just downed some creatine, and a walk across our hardwood floors that makes Jesus walking on water look laughable.
Myles, don't worry. I won't repeat the same mistakes your grandparents made. I'll never prioritize our mortgage over your haircut or let a man with the last name Jean-Baptiste cut your hair. I pray that the genetics responsible for your hair growth come from your mother and not from me – let's just say, I'm still praying.
Love,
Papa
Thanks for listening to WORKS. Here are some of my other recent posts:
MOVING — I just completed a three-part One Word film on the concept of “moving.” Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3
I started a VLOG — I’ve been having a lot of fun creating talking head-style videos for my paid members. This is a much smaller group, many of them artists themselves, and I talk about whatever interests us.
My latest episode, for example, was an introduction to Carl Jung. And on the August VLOG, I’ll rundown what video and audio equipment I use… and some stuff you should avoid.
This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit www.1word.ca
