Sometime, somewhere—in a land not far from our own, there lived an Emperor with nappy hair. He did not go to a black barber, or use cocoa butter, or apply leave-in-conditioner. No one had ever taught him how. He just let his large Afro tangle, dry, and break. He even washed it every day.
The village over which the Emperor ruled was a progressive, happy village. It was full of hipsters and intellectuals who prided themselves on their hipness and intellect. But there were no people with hair like the Emperor’s. On bad days, when the Emperor’s fro lay flat on one side and frayed on the other, his subjects told him, “Oh Emperor, do not worry, your hair always looks the same.” When the Emperor asked his Counselors for moisturizing advice, they told him, “Oh Emperor, your hair looks beautiful every day, as does your skin, Black Lives Matter.” So after a while, the Emperor stopped worrying about the nappy quality of his hair.
One day, there came into town a Barber. He was a bald barber, but it was clear that at one point, he had had hair like the Emperor’s. Word spread quickly that he was the finest barber in the land from whence he came. “His razor is a paintbrush, and the scalp, his canvas,” they said. Or, as often spoken in his native tongue, “He one dope ass nigga.”
“I must meet this Barber,” the Emperor demanded. He summoned the Barber to his quarters. The Barber, whose people had long been neglected by the Emperor’s foreign policy, was hardly surprised that this white talking, Uncle Tom, Oreo ass nigga should walk the world with such a horrible head of Afro hair. A true Afrikan, the Barber grew insulted. He became so angry that he vowed revenge against the Emperor. But he did not let this show.
“I have a special hairdo,” the Barber promised. “A new style that the world has yet to behold. It is marvelous and esoteric, but it cannot be appreciated by anyone who is racist, or anyone that lacks exquisite taste.”
The Emperor said aloud, “This is perfect. Now I will know who amongst my subjects is racist, and what aesthetic advice from my counselors should not be trusted. I must have this hairdo at once!” The Emperor paid the Barber in Benjamins, and the Barber began his work.
While the Emperor sat in the Barber’s chair, he grew nervous. The Barber snip snipped away and applied and re-applied product. Still, the Emperor could not tell just what the artist had in store. He wanted to ask for a look in the mirror, but feared that some reaction on his face might betray a lack of taste, or a racist bone in his regal body. The Emperor figured out a solution. He turned to his Counselors.
“Ronald, Bartholomew, how does my hair look?” he asked.
The Counselors did all they could to control their faces. The truth they did not want to tell was that the Emperor’s New Do did not look very good at all. In fact, it looked like a chopped and screwed version of that kid’s Afro in Hey Arnold. “Oh no, how could this be?” they both thought. “I cannot see the beauty in the Emperor’s New Do. I have always known that the Emperor’s hair was nappy and unkempt. It cannot be that I lack exquisite taste. I must be racist!”
“It looks beautiful, my Emperor, truly beautiful,” one said.
“Oh yes, exquisite,” the other promised. “Absolutely exquisite.”
The Barber nodded towards the Counselors in thanks. He told them what fine white people they were. The Counselors blushed.
Now the Emperor could hardly wait to see his New Do.
“Is it ready?” he asked.
“Almost,” the Barber replied. He snipped and snipped some more. Now the Counselors sang praises to the Emperor’s ear.
“Oh, it looks so good. Yaaasss king.”
“Marvelous! Marvelous!!”
With one final spray of product, the Barber turned the chair towards the mirror. “Done!” he shouted. The Barber wiped his hands, pleased with his work.
The Emperor looked upon his reflection. “Oh no! My hair looks hideous,” he thought. “It looks to be in the shape of a poodle. I cannot see the beauty in the hairdo. What does this mean? I cannot be racist. I must lack exquisite taste!”
“Wow, what incredible work,” the Emperor said. The Barber stood before him, hunched by the weight of his tool bag. The Emperor rose from the chair and extended his hand. “For your work, kind artisan, I will pay you three times your original fee.”
The Barber thanked the Emperor for his kind offer, but told him it was unnecessary. “The real honor, your grace, would be a trip to my own village, so that I might present this latest masterpiece to our people,” he explained.
The Emperor, truthfully, did not want any more folks to see his new hairdo than those that already had. But, he knew that to reject such an offer would be to reveal his lack of exquisite taste.
“Why, it would be my honor,” he replied.
So the Emperor, the Barber, and the Emperor’s Counselors made their way towards the Barber’s village. On their way through town, all of the Emperor’s subjects, having heard about the magical new hairstyle, crowded the streets to get a look at the Emperor’s New Do. They couldn’t wait to find out how racist their neighbors were. Upon seeing the Emperor’s New Do, the hipsters and intellectuals thought, “Oh dear! I cannot see the beauty in the Emperor’s New Do. I am a hipster. I cannot lack exquisite taste. I must be racist!
From the crowd, there came many a voice.
“Look at that fade!”
“Ooh, I love the edges.”
“Beautiful curls, just beautiful.”
“Amen!”
The Emperor held his head high and walked on. Since I lack taste, it makes sense that everyone else loves my new hair, he concluded. Perhaps it isn’t so bad.
Meanwhile, the Barber waved and smiled. He soaked up the white people’s applause for this absolute wreckage of a haircut. These people truly have no taste, he thought. And are racist.
Finally, the Emperor, his entourage, the Barber, and a number of stragglers from the Emperor’s village arrived at the Barber’s village. The Barber called out to his people, “Hey y’all! I brought you something. Look at this nigga’s head!” One by one, the Afro headed people of the Barber’s village came outside, and one by one, they began to laugh.
“That nigga look awful!” one said.
“So ugly!” said another.
“Atrocious!”
The Counselors frowned. They looked at one another in panic and said. “Oh no! These people cannot be racist. And everyone knows that they have the best taste. The Emperor’s New Do is hideous!”
“It’s hideous,” the stragglers from the Emperor’s village began to cry. “Absolutely ugly!”
But the Emperor kept smiling along. He waved and waved towards the jeering onlookers.
For once in my life, he thought. I am finally hearing the truth.
Joel Worford is a writer and musician from Richmond, Virginia. His work appears/is forthcoming in Trampset, The Chestnut Review, The Laurel Review, and more. He received a Best of the Net nomination in 2019 for his short story "The Warning Sign," as well as a Pushcart Nomination in 2021.