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state pen for check kiting and credit card fraud, Dooney learned a trade. His skills with shears were legendary by the time he made parole. With a dream and a barber starter kit from Wal-Mart, he began cutting neighborhood heads in his tiny apartment bathroom. When the booming traffic sent the police to his door, they expected to make a drug bust. Although none were found, Dooney was forced to become a legitimate operator and find a place to accommodate his loyal clientele. Blessed with friends in low places, a city councilman persuaded him to throw every cent he had into an abandoned storefront, to access the city’s revitalization program in impoverished neighborhoods. Within two years of barely making ends meet, Dooney was awarded the deed to the building free and clear. He’d been living that dream and laughing about his good fortune each and every day since.
    This Saturday night was no different. The shop was humming with hip-hop music and black men catching up on old news and discussing current events. Children were not allowed to hang around after seven o’clock because there was no telling what topic might have jumped off once the sun set.
    Dooney howled loudly when his seven-thirty appointment strolled in with a dinner box from Maylee’s soul food down the street. “That’s what’s up! Rocky, you came through.” Dooney snatched the box, wrapped in a plastic bag, from the tough-looking customer. He pulled out a roll of money and passed a crisp ten-dollar bill to the man for his trouble, and then held the package up to his nose. “Did they put the extra syrup on my yams?” he asked, hoping they did. “Oh man, I’m on time for this! All y’all got to wait. My man Rocky is next.” To a chorus of complaints from those who’d waited longer than anyone should have, Dooney held his arms outstretched. “What? Did any one of y’all cut for a brotha? That’s what I thought. Then quit your yapping. Rocky, go ’head on and get in the chair. This here is gonna feed me like two fat females. Ain’t nothing like yams and big women. Ooh!”
    â€œI know you gonna let me sample some that baked chicken,” Tim, the grossly overweight barber standing nearest to him, suggested, rubbing his pot belly that appeared to be more than full as it was.
    â€œHuh? Did somebody say something?” Dooney smarted. “Brotha, you’s gonna have to get your own.”
    â€œCome on, Dooney, don’t be like that. I’d run on over to Maylee’s myself but my feet hurt.”
    â€œYour feet hurt? So!” he shouted dispassionately to a roaring herd of customers who saw not a war of words but of wit whereby to the winner went the spoils. “You think bad feet, bunions, and corns got anything on what I have to deal with. You don’t want to get started. Can’t no man up in here outcomplain me.”
    â€œPut that hot plate on it, then,” Tim chided. “I got more stuff wrong with me than going to war with them Iraqis.”
    â€œIf y’all’s going at it, I want in too,” asserted yet another busy barber, two chairs down.
    â€œUh-uh, this is between me and Tiny Tim,” Dooney objected. “Please believe, you don’t want this.”
    â€œBut I do want that,” Tim replied, staring down Dooney’s meal.
    â€œAll right, then, there’s only one rule, no cussing ’cause I’m tryna quit. You cool with that?”
    â€œIt’s on, then,” Tiny agreed. “Do your thing.”
    Suddenly the shop fell silent with anticipation.
    â€œOkay, you said your feet hurt. Yeah, but…my dogs are barking and I got a hitch in my back from standing all day.”
    Tim’s stomach shook as he chuckled. “Too easy,” he smirked. “Okay then, my feet hurt…my back is tight, and my momma told me last night that I was adopted.” A quiet band of “oohs” rose into