Chances are, you’ve seen a guy cutting hair by West House after stepping off the C1 on East Campus. That would be me. If you were to walk into West House, this is what you’d see: the West House lobby, whose furniture serves as a waiting room. A wooden chair beside trash cans. A wide open door. And me, the West House Barber. This is my story.
Hair is a powerful status symbol, so trusting your barber means trusting them to tell your story through your appearance. However, for as long as I can remember, my hair was a source of quiet dissatisfaction. Most East Asian men share a similar problem: our stubbornly straight hair practically grows perpendicular to our scalps. I spent years fighting my hair with every product imaginable, but nothing could make it cooperate. By my junior year of high school, I realized that crunchy gels and shiny pomades were like band-aids for a problem that needed a better solution. So, I did what others wouldn’t dare to try: I cut my own hair.
When I packed my bags for Duke, I tucked my haircutting kit between my clothes, planning on only cutting my own hair. It was never my intention to bring the Barber to Duke; I didn’t think it would be possible for me to convince Duke students to receive a haircut from a peer. After O-week, however, there were more than a few shaggy heads of hair on East Campus. So, I didn’t wait for a permit or a professional studio. I set up behind the West House bench, blared house music, and turned the front yard of my dorm building into a barbershop. Students heading to class would stop and stare, and posts would pop up on Fizz, but the novelty soon turned into a thriving community. The West House Barber was born…