Tupac's POV
You're probably wondering why I'm sitting here in this chair, in this tiny, overheated parlour, letting Jennifer cut my hair. Jennifer, who decided just last week that she's now a "professional" hairdresser after taking a week-long class. Me, Tupac Shakur, in this chair, instead of being in my usual barber's shop—the place I've gone religiously for the past four years.
Let me tell you about my barber. He's not just a barber; he's a craftsman. He's the kind of man who treats every lineup like it's a masterpiece, every fade like it's a personal mission. Rain, snow, blistering heat—I'd make that 30-minute trek across town to his shop without fail. People thought I was crazy, risking pneumonia in the winter or dehydration in the summer, just to sit in that chair. But they didn't get it. This wasn't just about a haircut; it was about trust, respect, and knowing you'd walk out of there looking and feeling like a king.
I remember one winter when the snow was falling so hard, you could barely see two feet ahead of you. Most people stayed indoors, tucked under blankets, but not me. I bundled up in my thickest coat, gloves, and scarf and trudged my way to the shop, slipping on icy sidewalks the whole way. When I walked in, my barber raised an eyebrow and said, "Man, you're either dedicated or out of your damn mind." I just laughed and said, "Both." But when he finished, and I looked in that mirror, it was worth every freezing step.
Then there was that one summer—the kind of summer where the heat hits you like a brick wall the moment you step outside. I was sweating bullets by the time I got to the shop, but it didn't matter. My barber handed me a bottle of cold water, cranked the fan up, and went to work. When I walked out with that fresh fade, I felt cooler than the breeze that finally hit me.
And now? Now I'm here, sitting in Jennifer's chair, breaking that sacred bond. Why? Because Jennifer wouldn't let it go.
She walked into the studio one day, all excited, holding a shiny new pair of scissors like they were a trophy. "Guess what, Pac?" she said, grinning from ear to ear. "I'm a hairdresser now! You're my first customer."
I laughed it off, thinking she was joking. But Jennifer doesn't joke. At least, not when it comes to proving a point. "Come on," she said, grabbing my arm. "Let me give you a fresh look. I've got this new style I'm dying to try."
I pulled my arm back, shaking my head. "Nah, I'm good. I've already got my barber. You know, someone who's been cutting my hair since before you even thought about hairdressing."
Jennifer crossed her arms and gave me that look—the one that said she wasn't going to back down. "Pac," she said, her tone firm, "you don't trust me?"
"It's not about trust," I argued. "It's about experience."
"I've got experience!" she shot back. "A whole week of it."
I couldn't help but laugh. "A week, huh? That's supposed to compete with four years of perfection?"
She didn't say anything after that. She just stared at me, her arms still crossed, with this determined look on her face. The kind of look that said, I'm not giving up until you say yes. And I made the mistake of saying, "Fine. One haircut. Just one. But you better not mess it up."
Which is how I ended up here, in this chair, in this tiny parlour with its flickering lightbulb and the faint smell of burnt hair lingering in the air. Jennifer was grinning like she'd just won the lottery. Meanwhile, I was sitting there, practically sulking, because deep down, I knew this was a bad idea.
I take a deep breath, eyeing her suspiciously as she grins down at me. "You know, Jen," I start, "this doesn't feel right. I'm a loyal customer. My barber might think I'm cheating on him."
She rolls her eyes. "Oh, stop being dramatic, Pac. You're doing me a favor."
A favor? She's talking like she's not the one who dragged me here. For three days straight, she pestered me, pulling on my sleeve, giving me those big, pleading eyes. "Come on, Pac," she'd say, "just let me try. You'll look amazing!" And here I am now, practically crying in this chair.
"Alright, Jen," I say, dabbing at my completely dry eyes. "But I just want you to know, if this goes sideways, my ghost is haunting you forever."
Jennifer swats my arm. "Stop fake crying, Pac."
"Fine," I huff. "So, what kind of cut are you giving me?"
She smirks, putting a finger to my lips. "Shh. It's a surprise."
I raise an eyebrow. "Just make sure I look good enough to get, like, four girls to fall in love with me instantly."
Big mistake.
Jennifer grabs my ear and twists it. "Excuse me? What did you just say?"
"Ow, ow! Okay, okay! I was joking!"
"That's what I thought." She lets go, giving me a mock glare before turning back to her tools.
Jennifer gets to work, starting with the sides. She trims them down, leaving the top untouched. I glance at the mirror, unsure of her vision, but she seems confident. Then she pulls out a small box of dye.
"What's that for?" I ask nervously.
"Relax," she says, holding up two bottles—one blonde and one black.
"Jen," I say, my voice trembling, "don't you think my natural look is good enough?"
She shushes me again and starts applying the dye. One side of my hair turns blonde while the other remains black. After about 40 minutes of drying time—and me regretting every decision that led me here—she rinses my hair and starts twisting small sections.
"Wait a minute," I say, catching a glimpse of what she's doing. "Are those locs?"
"Yup," she says proudly. "But not just any locs. This is a masterpiece."
After what feels like hours, she spins my chair around to face the mirror. I blink, stunned. My hair is split perfectly down the middle—half blonde, half black, styled in iconic locs.
---
"See?" Jennifer says, beaming. "You look amazing."
I tilt my head, inspecting the look. "You know what? It's not bad."
Jennifer raises an eyebrow. "Not bad?"
"Okay, fine. It's... iconic."
She crosses her arms, satisfied. "Damn right it is. And now, when people ask about your hair, you tell them I did it."
I grin, giving her a mock salute. "Alright, boss. You win this round."
As I leave the parlour, I catch my reflection in a window and nod. Maybe Jennifer's onto something.
Walking into the studio that day, I knew I was in for something. Not because of the music or the session—it was the damn haircut. I tried to keep my head high, acting like I was unfazed, but let's be real: having a half-blonde, half-black loc style in the late '80s? That was just asking for attention.
The moment I stepped through the door, all conversation stopped. I could feel every pair of eyes turning to me, wide with disbelief. For a second, there was nothing but silence. Then, like a tidal wave, the laughter hit.
"Yo, Pac!" Eazy-E hollered, nearly falling off the couch. "What the hell is on your head, man? You trying to start a new trend or scare the ladies away?"
Dre spun around in his chair, his face breaking into a grin. "Nah, Eazy. That's not a trend. That's a statement." He threw up his hands, mimicking quotation marks. "The statement is: Help me, my barber betrayed me!"
"Ha-ha," I said, rolling my eyes as I walked further into the room. "Y'all done yet, or should I give you a minute?"
D.O.C leaned back in his chair, smirking. "Hold up, Pac. I gotta know—who did this to you?"
I sighed, throwing my bag on the floor. "It was Jennifer, alright? She's trying out this hairdresser thing, and I was her first client."
Big mistake admitting that.
Eazy clapped his hands together, practically in tears. "Oh, man, Pac! You let Jennifer do that? You must really like her, huh? Ain't no way anyone does that for free!"
"Y'all don't understand," I said, holding up my hands defensively. "She wouldn't let it go. Three days of her begging me. I finally caved just so she'd stop asking."
"Yeah, and now look at you," Dre said, spinning back to his console. "You look like you're auditioning for a circus act."
Cube chimed in, "Nah, he looks like one of those comic book villains. Two-Face, but make it hip-hop."
The room erupted again. Even the engineers in the back were chuckling.
I crossed my arms, trying to keep my cool. "Alright, y'all got your laughs. But let me tell you something—you're all gonna be copying this look in a year. Watch. This is the future."
Eazy snorted. "Man, the only future I see with that haircut is you getting clowned at every show."
"Keep talking," I said with a grin. "But when the ladies start loving this, don't come crying to me asking for Jennifer's number."
yella raised an eyebrow. "The ladies, huh? Pac, you sure about that? 'Cause right now, I'm thinking they're running the other way."
"Laugh all you want," I said, sitting down and putting on my headphones. "But just wait until I'm on stage, and this haircut becomes iconic."