Barbershop: A Short Story (re)Imagining Community-Based Interventions

Author’s Note: Thank you for taking the time to read my story. It means the world to me that you’ve shared in this vision of reimagining community, love, and intervention(s). I want to be transparent with you. This story is my work, born from my imagination, stories I’ve been honored to witness/collect, and my heart. To aid in the creative process, I utilized AI tools (ie. ChatGPT) for brainstorming, editing, and formatting. While these tools were instrumental in shaping and refining my ideas and formatting, the narrative and the soul of this story remain fully my own. Please note that this work should not be reproduced, distributed, or claimed without permission. Your respect for my creation allows me to continue sharing stories that reflect the beauty and complexity of Black communities. I hope this story resonated with you and that you saw pieces of yourself within it. Thank you for reading, and thank you for being part of this journey.

The Barber

His name is Jay Tahon Norris. And every day the sharp buzz of his clippers, coupled with the lyrics of either Moneybagg Yo or his best friend who was no longer with him, was the soundtrack of his barbershop, The Groom Room.

“Rico got no money, he done lost his job;

He ain’t got no choice, but to jugg and rob;

He f****d a b***h named Tesha, got one on the way;

Got kicked out the house, now he stay at her place;

He told her ‘Baby let’s go rob a f*****g bank;

She said ‘Okay’, and then they filled the gas tank”

The lyrics drift from the shop’s speakers, weaving their way into the air and to his psyche.

They consumed him more than memories of his boy did. Clenched at him tighter than the fists he balled to soothe himself when he got stressed.

The world knew the voice behind “Rico Story” as Speaker Knockerz. But to Jay, he was just…Derek. The boy who came with him and his foster mother to the pool during the scorching hot summers when they were kids. The boy who was with him in the grocery store when he met his real mother for the first time when they were nine. The person he fought his inner and outer demons with when they were teens. And then eventually, the man…he had to bury.

It’d been ages since Derek died. Years that felt like lifetimes. But that’s the thing about grief. It didn’t obey any clocks or calendars. Even if you tried to bury it six feet under with the people you lost, it always had this way of playing hide and seek. Hiding when it was convenient. And finding you at the most inopportune times. Like now, when it wasn’t even lunchtime and he was only on his second head of the day.

Jay sniffs and shakes his head to blink back the haze of his memories for a moment. He glanced around his shop, taking in its familiar comforts. The sharp smell of talcum powder, the full-service bar, and the masculine retreat that gave just the perfect blend of edge with speakeasy charm. Outside Valor Plaza, Broad River buzzed with its usual bustle and buffoonery. Crackheads shuffled up the street, cars honked, and, as always, somebody was shouting to be heard over it all.

People told him a shop like this wouldn’t make it on this side of Columbia, South Carolina. Even Ms. May, his last foster mother who he still checked on, told him, “You can’t rely on n****s if you tryna make some money.” But here he was. Ten years in, and The Groom Room wasn’t just surviving. It was thriving. People traveled from all over South Carolina, North Carolina, and Georgia to be blessed by Jay’s hands or those of the talented barbers he’d carefully chosen to work alongside him.

But The Groom Room wasn’t just a place for fades and line-ups. In the last three years, Jay had turned it into a community hub. A haven. And now? The home of an after-school program designed to disrupt cycles of violence that shadowed the neighborhood’s youth.

The program, named ‘Blades and Banter,’ was the brainchild of him and his cousin, Taj Greene, a passionate social worker. Every weekday at 4:00 PM, the shop transformed. Chairs normally reserved for clients became seats for brother circles, filled with students from Saint Andrews Middle and Columbia High School. Sometimes, the mirrors reflected reluctance. Kids forced there by parents who wanted better for them or grandmothers with no other options. Other times, the mirrors held excitement. Young men ready to learn, laugh, vent, and grow. Regardless, the space was a sanctuary containing the very young men most people in the city had already counted out.

Jay even made sure the walls carried purpose, too. Alongside posters of iconic Black leaders, he hung images that intentionally represented the greatness these young men could aspire to. Visions of what they might become. Craig Melvin. Nipsey Hussle. Malcolm X. Langston Hughes. Chadwick Boseman, an SC native who carried the weight of a kingdom. Ta-Nehisi Coates, for the power of their stories and their voices. And Toni Morrison, Nikki Giovani, and Octavia Butler, too, reminding them that greatness knows no gender.

Each image was a deliberate reflection of excellence that Jay wanted the boys. Nah. The young men to see. And feel. To know that their zip codes didn’t have to be their final destinations. This was the purpose and pulsating breaths of Blades and Banter. Cutting away at the doubt, the statistics, and the stereotypes, and shaping something stronger in its place. Something safer, too. A space where they could learn to see themselves not just as who they were…but as who they could become.

The Ethnographer

She walks in The Groom Room, taken aback as soon as she sees him. A whole childhood and adolescence had gone by, and he still made her heart flutter. Her name is Phoenix Cia Sellers. And she had loved Jay since she saw him.

No longer the boy she met with crooked glasses at church, Jay Tahon Morris was a man now. Bigger. Better. More self-assured. And my God, his presence magnetic in a way that made her stomach twist and turn with yearning. His back was to her, broad and steady as he guided clippers across someone’s head with the kind of precision that she knew was intentional and meditative to him. She stood frozen in the doorway, unsure if she wanted to announce her presence or just watch him a little longer. But as always, he sensed her. He turns to her, taking her in completely, and saying only one thing.

“Phoe.”

Phoe. A name only he called her.

Phoenix had always worn her heart on her sleeve. And when it came to Jay, there was no use pretending otherwise. She loved him like Keyshia Cole loved singing “Love.” She loved the way she could get a crooked smile out of him, the way his nostrils flared when he was focused, the way he moved through the world like it couldn’t break him even when she knew it had a hundred times over.

But she also knew Jay more than anyone else did. He was a man who guarded his heart as fiercely as a lion guards its pride. Maybe that was the Leo in him. Where she had a bottomless ocean of emotions, he was the shore. Steadfast and unwilling to be swept away. Where she wanted to fold herself into him, he needed to remain unbent. And though they tried their best to collapse into love, love wrinkled and creased them before it could fully form. His emotional distance had carved solar systems between them, and Phoenix had no choice but to choose herself…and let go. At least, of the romance.

Yet…here she was invading his space. Again. Not just as a woman who shared a Sunday kind of love with him. But as an ethnographer.

Phoenix’s love for Jay was as intractable as her passion for anthropology. And lately? Well, those two parts of her world had commingled in ways that often left her dizzy. But Blades and Banter was her entry point. The minute Jay told her about the program, it’s like everything she was unsure about clicked together. She’d spent years coming to the Groom Room. Not just to be near him, but to immerse herself in the atmosphere he created. A space that shaped her as she stood on the brink of defining her own identity.

Most importantly, it was a space that mattered. To the Broad River community. To the people who walked through its doors. And…to her.

She knew she had to study it. Not just for her dissertation, but because spaces like this- spaces where Black men, self-care, and conversation converged to create a utopia for cultural exchange and protection-were vital. They were everything.

It was a little after 4:00 PM, and the room was filled. Her field notes were already overflowing with observations from many previous sessions, but standing here now, seeing the program in action again, made her chest swell with pride and reverence. It always did. The shop was vibrant yet deliberate. It was…all love in here. On any given day, the program began with a check-in.

“How was yall day? And what’s on your mind?” Taj’s voice anchored the room, his words both a command and an invitation.

While the young men, ranging from 12 to 18 years old, respond in a chorus of candid remarks, Phoenix finally walks over to Jay. And as she does, the rhythm of the shop fades as she narrows her focus on him and the music playing.

“Every time I come in here…you’re always playing Speaker Knockerz,” she said, her tone playful but curious.

He shrugged nonchalantly, keeping his eyes on the clippers in his hand. “I can’t really help it. There are a lot of days I just miss him.”

Phoenix takes in the lyrics.

“Rico Story” she noted “Good one.”

Jay scoffs, a soft bitterness clenching the air.

“There’s nothing good about Rico Story….not when you know who and what he’s talking about.”

Her words caught in her throat, and the air felt like it was thickening between them. She hadn’t meant to misstep, but she had anyway. She often felt that way around him. Not sure if her presence eased his grief or risked puncturing it again.

Jay glanced at her as if reading her mind, his eyes taking her all in again. “It’s all good, Phoe,” he adds.

“You never have to tip-toe around me. Plus, you know you fuck with this, too.”

When he gifts her his smile, Phoenix feels at ease again. Still, though, she was unsure how to respond and wanted to hold space for him. She shifted her gaze back to the room for a moment.

Obi, a lean and tall 14-year-old who took a quick gravitation towards the shop and Jay, spoke up.

“Today’s a year since Ke’Mal got shot.”

The room had quieted then, the hum of Jay’s clippers now a soft undercurrent. Taj nodded, his eyes scanning the group. They all knew Ke’Mal. Because at one point…he was here with all of them. Until he wasn’t.

“And there’s been…nothing,” Obi continues “No answers about what happened…who did it. Nothing.”

“Let’s talk about it, Obi,” Taj finally said. Whatever you want. Whether that’s missing Ke’Mal. Or how you’re feeling right now.”

The discussion unfolded like waves in a fresh cut. Delicate. Intentional. Revealing truths from all the young men that often remained unspoken when one was navigating grief. Phoenix pulled her notebook out and wrote furiously, awed by the way this space took shape. There was a kind of safety that was capacious enough to be vulnerable. And to question.

For Phoenix, this was more than research. It was her calling. Her upbringing had been one of polished appearances and traditional expectations. As the daughter of a megachurch pastor and a high school principal, she was groomed to be respectable, modest, and dutiful. But those containers had always sowed discord with the parts of her that longed to be free and untamed.

Jay had been the first person to see those parts of her. With him, she didn’t have to wrap herself into the neat little boxes her parents and church had constructed. She could slant in any direction her womanhood wanted to go. Oblique and unapologetic as fuck.

And now, here he was again, the center of her world in more ways than one. Watching him and Taj guide this program and pour themselves into it only deepened her feelings for him. It was maddening really. Because the lines between her professional admiration and personal longing were constantly blurred.

When she finished writing, Phoenix bit her lip as she felt Jay’s eyes on her. The faintest smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, and her stomach flipped. She told herself to focus. To remember why she was here. She was studying this space. Not pining over its architect. But her heart, traitorous as fuck, whispered otherwise.

She just shakes her head, blushing back at him. In moments like this, Phoenix wasn’t sure what she wanted more. For Jay to love her the way she loved him. Or for her research to give the program the visibility it deserved. Both felt monumental. And both felt impossible, too.

But sitting there, surrounded by the tempo of the truths in the space, she believed in the power of both dreams.

The Participant

He sniffs, in disbelief that he had shared something so personal. That he’d admitted to crying for Ke’Mal the night before. As for him and his Nigerian house, that was something he could’ve never shared with his parents. “Ah! Have you lost your mind? Why are you sad?” His father’s tone, sharp with disapproval and incomprehension, played in his head along with the numerous musical beats he digested daily. It was from the one time…he’d tried to be open. His name is Obinna Njoku. Or Obi as everyone called him.

He clenches his jaw immediately, looking back up and around the room, and masking himself in all the masculinity he’d been taught to dress himself in. Obi, one of the top boxers in the state for his age and weight class, had rocked people’s shit in the ring for less. So, today wasn’t going to be the day that he got in his first fight outside of it all because…of tears.

Obi takes a deep breath, focusing on Jay’s curated playlist thumping softly in the background. Lauryn Hill was playing now. The one and only. A complicated female genius. Jay thought so, too. Obi liked the way her voice sounded. Warm and sharp at the same time. It grounded him in this moment when all eyes were on him.

He hadn’t told his parents how much he looked forward to this program every day. They thought it was just a space for kids to talk, to “keep their heads on straight,” as his dad put it. And his mom liked the idea of him socializing with other Black boys and being mentored by other Black men. She said it was good for him to “see every kind of struggle and strength” here. Obi understood what she meant, but he also felt like it was still her way of othering them. And really saying, You don’t belong to this community, but you should at least learn about it.

But Obi did belong. The minute they moved here and he stepped foot in H.B. Rhame Elementary, he had been embraced into a family.

Sometimes, it felt like they didn’t get him at all. His dad’s dreams for him to become a doctor were so clear that not even Windex was needed. And the weight of that expectation felt like a constant pressure. What his dad didn’t see though. What neither of them saw…was the way Obi locked in whenever he was at his computer, making beats, layering sounds, and losing himself in the music.

Right now, Obi enjoyed making Afro-Trap and orchestral beats for his best friend and aspiring artist, Demoni. He had a computer, headphones, a mic, and Demoni’s grime that reminded him of DMX. Together, they were making music when they weren’t at school or this shop. Obi delivered beats that blended sounds similar to Stormzy in the UK with the architecture of Atlanta’s Zaytoven mix of flutes and organs. And Demoni supplied gruff, hard-hitting lyrics that made Obi question what kind of things he’d already seen at 14.

The shop was the only place where Obi could breathe. Here, the rules weren’t rigid. Jay and Taj only wanted three things- 1) respect, 2) accountability, and 3) a safe space. Outside of that, they encouraged the boys to share their thoughts. Even the messy ones. And Phoenix-the ethnographer, always around, bright, and writing in her notebook- didn’t treat them like subjects in a study. She listened like she genuinely cared about what they had to say. Every single time.

Sometimes, Obi caught her glancing at Jay. Other times, he caught her smiling at them during the sessions. This quiet, reassuring kind of smile. The kind that didn’t push but still just pulled something outta you anyway.

Obi looks at Taj before admitting, “Sometimes it feels like I don’t have a right to feel this. Because we weren’t even close.”

“Collective grief is a thing” Jay says, drawing everyone’s attention to him.

Collective grief, Obi thinks to himself, letting the phrase wash over him as Jay explained. It made sense, considering everything he felt over the year.

The session moved into its second part: skill-building. Malik, one of the barbers in the shop, stood in the center of the room, acting out a scenario with Taj. They worked through how to de-escalate, turning a heated moment into nothing more than a conversation rather than an altercation or worse…a homicide.

Obi thought about the arguments he avoided at home. Not at school or in the ring. Obi handled those perfectly. But in the quiet moments when his parents pressed him about his future, Obi felt like he metamorphosed from a butterfly to a caterpillar. He thought about the beats he kept hidden on his computer, the evasive maneuvering he did whenever Demoni was over to record, and how different life might be if they could just…listen to him. But that wasn’t a conversation he knew how to have yet.

As clippers buzzed and the conversation continued to flow, Obi stole a glance at Phoenix. She was leaning against the wall, notebook in hand, but her pen wasn’t moving. She was watching Taj and Malik intently, her expression soft. She looked like she was trying to absorb all the energy in the room. Soak up everything. Not for her research…but for herself.

That made him feel… seen strangely. It was like she was there for all of them. Like…she actually fucking cares. Sometimes, he wondered what she wrote about him. About all of them. Did she fully understand the things they couldn’t say out loud? Or was she piecing it together from the way he kept his thoughts brief or laughed a little too loudly at the random jokes?

When the session ended, Jay clapped him on the shoulder. “You good?”

Obi nodded. “Yeah. Thank you.”

“Look,” Jay said, motioning towards the counter. “I got you something.”

He pulled up a box with a bright red bow on it. Obi’s eyes widened as soon as he saw it.

“A…Kontrol keyboard? Jay, this shit is like a thousand dollars.”

Jay raised a hand, cutting him off, “Let’s just say…I’m in the Christmas spirit. You and Demoni keep making some good music with that. You never know what can happen.”

Obi hesitated, his fingers running over the image of the 49-key keyboard controller. “My parents…” he started, swallowing hard. “They won’t let me have this.”

“Ah!” Jay interrupted with a grin, mimicking Obi’s dad’s tone and thick accent.

Obi shook his head, laughter erupting out of him uncontrollably. “His ass does sound like that.”

Jay smirked, pumping his arms in the air as if he’d just won a round in the ring with him. “Well, I’m not taking it back. Plus, you know your dad loves me. I’ll talk to him if it’s a problem. And… maybe you should, too.”

Obi peered up at Jay, his heart pounding in his chest. Would his dad really understand? Would his mom? The expectations in his home loomed large, often pressing down on him. But, there was something about the way Jay said, “And maybe you should, too.” It made it all feel…possible. Like the tiniest crack of light shining through. It wasn’t like he didn’t have a plan. He still wanted to go to college, but on his own terms. Instead of pre-med, he wanted to double major in Music Education and Business. So maybe, just maybe, he could try.

“Obinna” his mom called entering the shop. “Ah.”

He froze.

Her eyes locked on the keyboard, sharp and unyielding. “What is this?”

Six Months Later

The aroma of grilled ribs and fried fish wafted through the air, mingling with the sounds of children, laughter, and Young Dolph’s Memphis drawl in “Play Wit Yo B***h”. Valor Plaza was alive with joy and triumph for the first annual Juneteenth Community Cookout, organized by The Groom Room and spearheaded by Jay and Phoenix. The parking lot was lined with food trucks, local vendors, and an outdoor stage that brought the community together in a way that felt like a collective end to a long wait to exhale. A pause from everything that happened yesterday or would happen tomorrow. And a moment to just…be.

Jay stood near the grill, a red Solo cup in his hand, flipping over a perfectly crisp and charred piece of chicken. For once, he looked so relaxed, nodding and joking with Taj and some of The Groom Room’s barbers as they handed out plates. But occasionally, his eyes wandered to Phoenix, who was setting up near the donation table, her smile effortlessly lighting up the whole fucking event. She caught his gaze and waved him over.

“Excuse me,” Jay muttered unable to conceal his grin, setting down the tongs.

He walked over, keeping his eyes fixed on her as he did. “Phoe,” he said when he reached her, his voice low and warm. “You good?”

“Yeah,” Phoenix replied, handing out flyers. “We’ve already raised enough to fund another year of the program and buy bookbags for 150 kids.” She turned to him, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “I’m glad we did this, Jay. You should be proud.”

He nodded, glancing around at the crowd. “Couldn’t have done it without you. You’ve got a way of making things happen, Phoe. You should be proud, too.”

Phoenix blushed, her heart damn near leaping out of her chest at the sound of his nickname for her.

“Thanks,” she said softly. “And… thank you for letting me be part of the program. You know…given our history. My advisor is thrilled with what I’ve got so far. She thinks my dissertation might actually be groundbreaking. All because of what you and Taj built here.”

“Yeah? How’s that coming?” Jay asked, leaning against the table.

“Really well,” Phoenix said. “Attendance is steady, and the surveys are showing big improvements in how the boys handle conflict, how many fights they’ve been in, and how they internalize oppression.

But honestly, it’s the stories that really paints the picture. Like Jamal saying he stepped in to mediate a fight at school or Tyrese mentoring his younger cousins. Reading those things make this all so…real.”

She paused, her gaze softening. “This program… it’s changing lives, Jay. Including mine.”

Jay’s lips curled into a small smile. “It’s changing me, too. I told my therapist I wish I had something like this growing up here.”

Phoenix’s eyes widened, wanting to make sure she heard this man correctly. This man who’d only ever given her ounces of his story over the years. “Wait.” She shook her head in disbelief. “You have a therapist now?”

Jay nods, looking at her like he was looking straight to her core. “I… started feeling like a hypocrite.

Like I couldn’t. Nah. Like I shouldn’t be doing this if I didn’t own up to some of my own shit, too.”

“Wow.” Phoenix says, speechless “Jay. That is….significant.”

“Yeah,” he exhaled deeply. “Plus, I lost something a while back. And I’m tryna come correct…because I want it back.”

His words hung in the air, his meaning transparent and intentional.

Phoenix’s breath caught. She searched his face and saw his story. His eyes held chapters of vulnerability, making her insides ache. “I hope you get whatever it is” she whispered back, hopeful and relieved.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

On the outdoor stage, Demoni tapped the microphone, his grin wide as the crowd turned their attention to him. “Wuz good, y’all?” he shouted, earning cheers and applause. “I couldn’t come up here without payin’ homage…and doin’ a lil somethin’ for the man who made all this possible. Jay, this for you, Unc. This for Ke’Mal, too.”

The opening notes of a familiar melody filled the air, and Jay froze. It was Rico Story, but different. It had been layered with another kind of sound. Subtle, but it was there. As Demoni rapped, his lyrics told a new story. His story. Ke’Mal’s story. And a tribute to resilience, to loss, and to freedom. Jay’s jaw clenched. His fist balled. His chest tightened. He closed his eyes, as memories of Derek washed over him. But for the first time…it wasn’t crashing down all around him. The waves of his grief felt lighter.

Steady. Like it was sharing space with something else. Like it had a new lease agreement…with healing.

“Obi!” Demoni called out mid-performance. “Get yo ass up here! Sorry, Ms. Njoku”

Obi, standing at the edge of the stage, looks over at his parent’s food truck. His father’s jaw tightened, and his mother’s brow furrowed. But when Obi glanced back at Jay, who looked curious, he shrugged off his fear of his parent’s disappointment and climbed up.

The crowd erupted as Obi grabbed the mic. His voice, naturally low at first, grew stronger with each verse. He and Demoni traded bars, their energy electric, infectious, and unstoppable. The audience cheered, nodded, and swayed, caught in the musical trap they opened with their words.

From the stage, Obi spotted his parents. His mother’s lips were pursed, and his father was now distracted by serving a customer. They didn’t leave their truck, but their dissatisfaction was palpable. Still, Obi kept going. The music drowned out his fears, his voice carrying dreams he’d long kept hidden.

___________________________________________________________________________________________

As their song ended, Obi returned the mic to Demoni, the crowd roaring with validation. But as the noise settled, Obi’s gaze lingered on Demoni. There was something unspoken between them, something deeper than friendship. Obi had felt it for a while now. Especially every time they worked on music together. And every time Demoni’s voice filled the room with raw emotion. And tonight, he felt it even more on the stage with him.

Demoni grinned, pulling Obi into a quick hug before addressing the crowd again. But Obi’s thoughts lingered, his heart pounding as he wondered if Demoni had ever felt it, too.

____________________________________________________________________________________________

Back near the grill, Phoenix stood with Jay, their eyes watching Obi and Demoni on stage. She glanced at him, her voice soft. “Did you..?”

As if reading her mind, Jay shook his head. “No. I thought that lil n***a only made the beats. I ain’t know he could spit like that.”

Phoenix smiled, her eyes misty. “That was amazing. They were incredible.”

Jay nodded slowly, his expression unreadable for a moment before he cleared his throat. “So. What’s next?” His tone was thoughtful, yet…curious.

“We keep going,” Phoenix said, determined as ever. “Expand the program. Maybe add workshops for parents or bring in more guest speakers. Even start having sessions on sex ed. There’s so much we can do.”

Jay licked his lips, a playful glint in his eye as he tilted his head toward her. “We, huh?”

“Yeah,” Phoenix smiled, looking up at him and seeing all her dreams in his eyes. “We.”