The Fourth

Being from the West Coast, I never really celebrated the fourth of July. It always seemed like the holiday was meshed into the rest of summer, with the unceasing heat and endless days wasting time at the beach. The year was a cycle of starting the school year, anticipating that final bell ring, and then that rush into our vacation. Summer would always start with a bang. Friends playing video games until the sun rose. But after a while it would all get old and the next thing you know, school is starting again.

In a lot of ways, I'll miss those days when time didn't really matter. But now we're all grown up, the suits need dry cleaning, and there's always something to do. The fourth this year was a lot more patriotic than, well, ever. I started the day off with a pass by the archives but the line streched out for what seemed like miles. I overhood "parade" so I walked over towards Constitution, or is it Independence? The parade was a lot of hooplah. A wild assortment of old women and young children that can only be found in America. There was more exhibitions of foreign cultures than actual American stuff. There were Mexican mariachi bands, Southern Belles, Caribbean dancers, and even Taiwanese Indians (if that makes sense).

The parade got tired so I walked over towards the Barbershop. The Smithsonian held a cultural festival featuring black, white, and brown. The yellow was missing though. There was a poetry section called the Barbershop. One guy went at it pretty well. He spoke of the days of the barbershop. When there weren't any ipods or laptops. Just the corner and the barbershop. He spoke of his father who was a barber. But ironically his hair was always bad. There's good and then there's bad hair he said. Good hair was smooth. Bad hair, well, not smooth. He had the bad hair. But one day his momma made him go to the barbershop. He didn't want to. But he would've got a whupping if he didn't. So he went. He went in all scared because he never really had a good experience in a barbershop. But one of the barbers, Mo, had a jive. He had a clicking to his fingers and a good voice. That man he pointed. So he went on over. The man's voice and rhythm was so good that this young man stayed put for once. He sat. He jived also. When the time was done and it was time to go he said, "My momma said, ummm, cut a little bit more". And there he went again. With the click of the finger and the clippin.