As I tried to look at my evolving haircut in the mirror my eyes turned to the numerous certificates, letters of recognition and even a diploma touting the qualifications of the man who was now trimming my hair, a bonafide barber’s apprentice, according to New York State.
I don’t know whether I’ve ever gotten a cut from an apprentice before but that was by far the least strange facet of this barbershop experience, if you could call it that. The barbershop I was in was in fact a hair salon-cum-leather boot shop, owned and operated by a Jew from the Former Soviet Union and also attended by my barber, the 20-year old Uzbek immigrant Avner, whose own hairdo hid under a velvet kippa.
“So,” he hesitated, making eye contact with me through the mirror, “how’s work?”
It was the first instance of conversation the two of us had had besides my telling him how much I wanted him to taper the back. I explained that I worked for a Jewish magazine for college students and he told me about how he’d been out of school for a year but had been playing barber since he was a kid at home, by himself in front of the mirror. Then came another pause in conversation. I checked to see how much he was taking off the sides.
“So,” same hesitation. ” Did you, did you vote?”
I paused, prayed that Avner was referring to some New York municipal election or other of which I was unaware, having moved to the city a month ago. Then he continued: “In the last election?” I told him I did, for Barack Obama.
What ensued was the 20-minute speech I’d been trying to avoid: how Obama was no friend of Israel, how–if I listened to the Israeli news–I would understand that Israel was in danger, how Obama said outright–according to said Israeli news (Arutz 7?)–that he wouldn’t help Israel anymore. My barber asked me if I spoke Hebrew. I do.
“Obama HaRasha,” he said. Obama the Evil.
During this tirade I stayed silent, partly because I didn’t want to aggravate a man who was holding a pair of scissors millimeters from my face, but partly because I didn’t see the point. I wasn’t going to convince this guy, mid-haircut, that Obama was a friend to Israel, that he was acting in the state’s best interests.
But my mind flashes to last week, sitting in a bar at 108th and Broadway, my friend and I in a shouting match about all things Israel: Barack and Bibi, Fatah and Hamas, J Street and AIPAC and much more. We slammed our beer glasses on the table, gestured at each other, interrupted each other until we were hoarse.
Why did I engage him and not my barber? It could have been that I know my friend much better and have been having these conversations with him for five years, but then again I’ve gotten into plenty of debates about Obama and Israel with people I don’t know. It could be that my friend–for all of his traditional Zionism–is also left wing at heart, but I’ve had this discussion with the far right as well: three weeks ago I was up until four one Friday night talking to a man who suggested that Obama is a “dark-skinned Arab” and that he was in league with the Russians to make America communist (no joke). It could have been that I know my friend has a college education while this guy does not, but I’ve never before made that my criterion for debate, nor have I cared what country people come from, nor their accent.
I have no answer as to why I didn’t respond to my barber. It may have been all of those factors combined that made me keep quiet, but I don’t know why I respond to some people sometimes and not to others. We need to ask ourselves whether those discussions are productive or whether they lead to more hot air and intellectual masturbation.
Those two instances–the bar and the haircut–do share an ending. As I walked again through the shoe store my barber approached me and wished me a good Shabbat, even on Monday, and told me it was nice to meet me. By the same token, that night at the bar ended with the two of us walking home, laughing and making plans to meet up soon after.
So whether we talk or whether we don’t talk, if we agree or disagree, maybe the one common denominator is that in the end, regardless of opinion, people are people. All we want is a beer, a haircut, or maybe a nice pair of handmade leather boots.
