The patrons liked him and often kidded him about his sandy hair. “Boy, you’s too dark to have hair like that. Ain’t nobody but white folks s’posed to have sandy-colored hair. An’ your’n’s nappy at that!” Then Sandy would blush with embarrassment—if the change from a dry chocolate to a damp chocolate can be called a blush, as he grew warm and perspired—because he didn’t like to be kidded about his hair. And he hadn’t been around uncouth fellows long enough to learn the protective art of turning back a joke. He had discovered already, though, that so-called jokes are often not really jokes at all, but rather unpleasant realities that hurt unless you can think of something equally funny and unpleasant to say in return. But the men who patronized Pete Scott’s barbershop seldom grew angry at the hard pleasantries that passed for humor, and they could play the dozens for hours without anger, unless the parties concerned became serious, when they were invited to take it on the outside. And even at that a fight was fun, too.
After a winter of Saturday nights at Pete’s shop Sandy himself became pretty adept at “kidding”; but at first he was timid about it and afraid to joke with grown-up people, or to give smart answers to strangers when they teased him about his crinkly, sand-colored head. One day, however, one of the barbers gave him a tin of Madam Walker’s and told him: “Lay that hair down an’ stop these niggers from laughin’ at you.” Sandy took his advice.
Madam Walker’s—a thick yellow pomade—and a good wetting with water proved most efficacious to the boy’s hair, when aided with a stocking cap—the top of a woman’s stocking cut off and tied in a knot at one end so as to fit tightly over one’s head, pressing the hair smooth. Thereafter Sandy appeared with his hair slick and shiny. And the salve and water together made it seem a dark brown, just the color of his skin, instead of the peculiar sandy tint it possessed in its natural state. Besides, he soon advanced far enough in the art of “kidding” to say: “So’s your pa’s,” to people who informed him that his head was nappy.
During the autumn Harriett had been home once to see her mother and had said that she was working as chambermaid with Maudel at the hotel. But in the barbershop that winter Sandy often heard his aunt’s name mentioned in less proper connections. Sometimes the boy pretended not to hear, and if Pete Scott was there, he always stopped the men from talking.
“Tired o’ all this nasty talk ’bout women in ma shop,” he said one Saturday night. “Some o’ you men better look after your own womenfolks if you got any.”
“Aw, all de womens in de world ain’t worth two cents to me,” said a waiter sitting in the middle chair, his face covered with lather. “I don’t respect no woman but my mother.”
“An’ neither do I,” answered Greensbury Jones. “All of ’em’s evil, specially if they’s black an’ got blue gums.”
“I’s done told you to hush,” said Pete Scott behind the first chair, where he was clipping Jap Logan’s hair. “Ma wife’s black herself, so don’t start talkin’ ’bout no blue gums! I’s tired o’ this here female talk anyhow. This is ma shop, an’ ma razors sho can cut somethin’ else ’sides hair—so now just keep on talkin’ ’bout blue gums!”
“I see where Bryant’s runnin’ for president agin,” said Greensbury Jones.
But one Saturday, while the proprietor was out to snatch a bite to eat, a discussion came up as to who was the prettiest colored girl in town. Was she yellow, high-brown, chocolate, or black? Of course, there was no agreement, but names were mentioned and qualities were described. One girl had eyes like Eve herself; another had hips like Miss Cleopatra; one smooth brown-skin had legs like—like—like—
“Aw, man! De Statue of Liberty!” somebody suggested when the name of a famous beauty failed the speaker’s memory.
“But, feller, there ain’t nothin’ in all them rainbow shades,” a young teamster argued against Uncle Dan Givens, who preferred high yellows. “Gimme a cool black gal ever’ time! They’s too dark to fade—and when they are good-looking, I mean they are good-looking! I’m talkin’ ’bout Harrietta Williams, too! That’s who I mean! Now, find a better-looking gal than she is!”
“I admits Harrietta’s all right,” said the old man; “all right to look at but—sput-t-tsss!” He spat contemptuously at the stove.
“O, I know that!” said the teamster; “but I ain’t talkin’ ’bout what she is! I’m talkin’ ’bout how she looks. An’ a songster out o’ this world don’t care if she is a—!”
“S‑s‑s‑sh! Soft-pedal it brother.” One of the men nudged the speaker. “There’s one o’ the Williamses right here—that kid over yonder shinin’ shoes’s Harriett’s nephew or somethin’ ’nother.”
“You niggers talks too free, anyhow,” one of the barbers added. “Somebody gwine cut your lips off some o’ these days. De idee o’ ole Uncle Dan Givens’ arguin’ ’bout women and he done got whiskers all round his head like a wore-out cheese.”
“That’s all right, you young whip-snapper,” squeaked Uncle Dan heatedly. “Might have whiskers round ma head, but I ain’t wore out!”
Laughter and smoke filled the little shop, while the winter wind blew sleet against the big plate-glass window and whistled through the cracks in the doorway, making the gas lights flicker overhead. Sandy smacked his polishing cloth on the toes of a gleaming pair of brown button shoes belonging to a stranger in town, then looked up with a grin and said: “Yes, sir!” as the man handed him a quarter.
“Keep the change,” said the newcomer grandly.
“That guy’s an actor,” one of the
