Tuesday was a surprisingly wonderful day, as pleasant as any day in prison can be. It started with commissary shop day, the bi-weekly occasion when we receive the items we ordered the previous week. “Campers” are usually running low on snacks and toiletries by this point, so the influx of supplies creates a palpable sense of happiness. Euphoria sweeps through the camp for at least a few hours. Even though they were out of nearly half of my order, I still received some much-needed items. Being relatively new, I’m still focusing on the essentials. Today’s treasures included a real toothbrush, headache medicine, and a soup holder—all things I was desperately lacking. It’s amazing what you come to prize in prison.
However, the best part of my day wasn’t materialistic. It was a haircut. It felt so good, I almost cried. Let me explain why something so commonplace meant so much. Before my arrest in 2020, I loved getting my hair cut. Every three weeks, without fail, I’d visit a salon in the Valley. I had a great hairdresser who knew me and my wife (through my stories) as well as any of my friends. I’d always share my latest anecdotes while she listened and refined my appearance. In that chair, I could relax and forget my troubles. Everything always seemed okay because I knew I’d leave looking good and feeling more confident. After my arrest, I often wondered what my hairdresser thought when she saw my face in the news.
A rarely discussed aspect of incarceration is its psychological impact. Guards, and to some extent other inmates, treat you like human garbage. Guards bark orders and use dehumanizing language. When you’re treated this way constantly, day after day, you begin to believe it. Jails are much worse than prisons in this regard. Here, we barely interact with the guards, and when we do, many treat us with at least a modicum of respect. They aren’t as harsh in the camps because they know we’re all non-violent offenders, mostly with minor crimes. In jail, every type of inmate is mixed together—murderers, rapists, assaulters, drug dealers, and white-collar criminals like me. So, the staff assumes the worst and treats everyone accordingly.
After spending over a month in various jails, including DC Jail (one of the worst in the country), I was mentally traumatized. I genuinely believed I was subhuman. The evidence of my pitiful existence seemed to be everywhere. My wife and I had no money because our accounts had been seized. She was struggling with alcoholism, her life completely upended. My dad had to use his life savings to pay my lawyer. My valued employees lost their jobs without even a final paycheck because those accounts were seized as well. My whole family was dealing with the depression and anxiety of not knowing if I was going to spend the rest of their lives, and maybe mine, in prison. Everyone I knew had their life turned upside down because of me. It took me a month before I could go to the grocery store without having a panic attack. I felt like everyone was staring at me, judging me.
Given all this, how could I justify spending what little money and time we had on something as selfish as a haircut? Deep down, I felt I didn’t deserve the positive feelings that came with it. As my hair became unmanageable, I borrowed clippers and gave myself a buzz cut—a #2 all around. My wife helped me at first, cutting it in our kitchen. Eventually, I did it myself, not wanting to burden her further. For five years on house arrest, I took out those clippers every month and gave myself a crude haircut alone in the basement. It was a way of punishing myself.
The salon I used to frequent charged $40 plus tip for a good haircut. Today, for the first time in over five years, someone else gave me a professional haircut. It reminded me of the old me—the me with hopes and dreams, the me who had value. It might have been the best haircut I’ve ever had. This transformative experience cost me two tuna packs, valued at $3.80.
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