For the entire night, visions of Diallo’s Barber Shop traumatized Ras Jungblé in his sleep. “Barber Shop! Barber Shop! Barber Shop!” The words rang loud and maddened his anxiety.

He sat up with a jolt. As he stood up to his window and gazed at the barber shop in the distance, he saw nothing but a crucifixion site he’ll soon have to carry his cross of dreadlocks to.

A black Jesus he saw himself to be. He has a case or two against the racist angels in heaven, but that’s another matter for some other day. Now Golgotha is his top priority.

He stormed out of his room and headed straight to Diallo’s barber shop. The barber was surprised to see his old friend. “Jungblé!” He exclaimed, not knowing what to add to complete his shock.

Jungblé’s request will complete that shock. A haircut he was here to have, and a haircut he must have. He’s been on the “Fire burn them” mountain for so long, reggaeing and weeing. Now he’s climbed down to humanity and wanted to look like one.

He’s eaten enough dreadlocks. Now he’s thirsty for vegetables and fruits and all the beef and coffee and bread and all the soberness that is due all mankind.

Diallo would never forget his conversations with Jungblé as to what led him to trim off his dreadlocks. Stepping out of the barber shop after his epic haircut ceremony, Jungblé wondered if his world is ready to receive new Jungblé, the living proof of the divorce between the old Ras Jungblé and Miss Dreadlocks.

He hoped for the best but expected the worst.