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By K.P.M.
What can a hairstyle supposedly tell us about someone’s discipline, wealth, morality or future? In Gentleman! Cut That Hair!!, K.P.M. takes familiar judgments about natural African hair and pushes them into outrageous territory. Through exaggeration, sarcasm and deliberately offensive stereotypes, the poem questions respectability, colonial influence, identity and the strange assumptions society can attach to appearance. The speaker keeps demanding that the “gentleman” cut his hair—but the further the rant goes, the more ridiculous the demand becomes.
Gentleman! Cut that hair!!
Look at the posture,
the frame,
the structure—
it’s tragic.
You’re walking around
looking like a budget version
of dark magic.
Do you know how shabby you look?
Do you know…
you make your own parents
look like they quit?
Like they threw in the towel,
signed the papers,
and just didn’t give a shi…
Do you know
the ladies want a fresh fade,
crisp line,
pristine aesthetic?
Instead, you’re sporting
an overgrown afro
that’s structurally pathetic.
Do you know…
you look homeless?
I know what you want to say.
I can hear the rebuttal
coming out of your mouth already:
“It’s my hair!
My body!
My right to be steady!”
Oh, so you’re pro-choice now?
Oh, so you support
the spectrum, the flag, the LGBTQ?
Please.
You ain’t ready for that dialogue.
You can’t even handle a comb.
Don’t lecture me on the monologue.
Let’s bring it back to you.
You make me feel
absolute physical discomfort.
You make me look poor
by pure proximity,
lowering my economic standing
by spatial affinity.
Language barrier?
Okay.
You make my peers say,
“Someone get these beggars
out of here!”
You embarrass me
in front of people
I haven’t even met yet—
sub-investors,
international guests,
and royalty
I haven’t set eyes on!
You look…
HORRID!!!
Don’t you think
the colonial master was intellectual?
Blessed with foresight
so divine and intentional?
That he stripped us of our locks,
shaved our crowns,
trimmed our beards,
just to keep us powerless,
manageable, subdued and feared?
To keep us humble,
humiliated,
walking like hollow shells?
Don’t you think
it was a blessing in disguise?
A series of saving bells?
That they took one look
at our natural, unbothered majesty
and decided the final play
to erase our identity…
was to chop the canopy?
Gentleman, cut that hair!
Don’t you know
the social diagnostic?
The psychological statistic?
That any Negro
who lets their hair grow
past an inch
is automatically a junkie?
A radical revolutionary?
A street-corner beggar?
A certified gangster?
A cold-blooded killer?
A walking problem?
An economic…
FAILURE?
Gentleman, cut that hair!
Why do you think
the schools,
the prisons,
the police
strip you of that shrub
till we can see
every lump and crease?
Of course it’s for your own good!
I mean,
who would want you
walking around confident
in your roots?
Standing tall
in your natural, ancestral suits?
Besides…
you can’t even speak
your own mother tongue!!
You speak Queen’s English
with a fractured lung!
So don’t come to me
talking ’bout your “ROOTS.”
The only roots you have left
are supposed to be exposed
to the brutal elements,
the cold breeze,
the harsh heat
the sun proposed.
Gentleman, cut that hair!!
Look at the difference
in our visual real estate.
When I step into a room,
ceiling lights reflect off my scalp,
and people can instantly
calculate the rate:
They see a guaranteed
9-figure bank account,
8 stunning houses
in 7 different nations,
6 brilliant children
attending top 5 educational institutions,
4 pristine sports cars
parked on imported slate,
3 pending international flights
I’m about to take,
2 high-maintenance girlfriends
keeping me motivated,
and 1 high-value submissive wife…
fully validated.
As for you?
You stumble into a room,
trailing static electricity
and regret.
People take one glance
at your hairline
and make a guaranteed bet:
They can tell
you’ve got 99 problems…
but a high-value woman
will never be 1!
6 prior felonies
awaiting trial,
7 different drugs
in your pocket,
living in denial,
5 active STDs
requiring a medical file,
and 4 abandoned kids
from 3 different women
who don’t even know
their father’s middle name!
I mean, for Christ’s sake,
you’re barely twenty years old…
walking around looking like
the “before” photo
at a government rehab facility.
Why don’t you sit your ass down
and make me some tea?
Oh, and one more thing…
Gentleman, cut that hair!
— K.P.M.
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