C34: Papa's Barbershop
"It should be here."
Li Ran stopped in front of an old storefront, its red-white-and-blue barber pole still spinning.
He gazed up at the faded sign reading "Papa's Barbershop – Est. 1978", trying to reconcile the storefront with his fragmented memory likely from one of his past lives or another Earth in the multiverse.
"Hey, kid, this isn't the safest place for someone who looks like you."
A gravelly but kind voice rang out behind him. Li Ran turned to see an elderly Black man in a straw pork pie hat and red-checkered shirt step beside him. The man nodded toward the shop with familiarity, worn hands reaching for a ring of keys.
"Harlem ain't what it used to be, thanks to guys like Luke Cage cleaning up the streets. But still, Asian kids? You stand out. Easy mark for the youngbloods still trying to imitate Tombstone or run with Mariah Dillard's old crew."
"I've already met them," Li Ran replied with a faint grin.
He recalled the gang of local punks, probably trying to emulate the Savage Skulls or some leftover mutant-haters from the Purifiers. But things hadn't gone as expected for them. They'd tried to mug him, but he'd walked away with their wallets.
"That so?" The man, still eyeing him from beneath the brim of his hat, raised a bushy brow and glanced down at Li Ran's scuffed sneakers and thrifted hoodie.
"Well, sorry you had to go through that in my neighborhood, son," he said with a sigh, misunderstanding. "But setbacks like Superman said after Doomsday, remind us how sweet it is to stand back up."
He patted Li Ran on the shoulder and unlocked the door, flipping the OPEN sign. Then he turned, cracking a smile.
"Well, come on in, kid. I can't undo whatever crap you've seen, but I can fix that head of yours. And don't worry, Dad don't charge for first cuts."
The offer was unexpected, but sincere. Li Ran gave a small nod and stepped inside. He was beginning to realize this wasn't just any barbershop, it was a piece of Harlem's soul.
"I don't usually do freebies," the old man added, "but in Dad's shop, you're already on par with Ali and Jordan."
He gestured toward a poster on the wall. Li Ran's eyes scanned it: names like Muhammad Ali, Barack Obama, Richard Roundtree, and even Misty Knight, all legends in their own way, all honored here.
Settling into the chair, Li Ran watched as the old man—Henry, the name embroidered on his apron, pulled back the curtain, revealing a modest room with a flickering TV playing highlights from a Brooklyn Nets game. Henry switched to MSG Network, muttering something about "real basketball."
"So, son, what kind of cut you looking for?" he asked, running a comb through Li Ran's overgrown hair. "Gotta say, this is the first time I've had an Asian kid in my chair. Closest was that Korean SHIELD agent who passed through after Harlem's last cleanup."
Li Ran fidgeted slightly.
The face he wore wasn't his original, thanks to the effects of the Prayer Order System but he still didn't want to look ridiculous. He thought about heroes like Amadeus Cho, or even Jimmy Woo from the Agents of Atlas, and muttered, "Maybe just a wash?"
Henry paused, then burst into a warm, wheezing laugh.
"Haha~ gotcha! Relax, son. Trust your old man Henry, by the time I'm done, you'll have girls chasing you like you're Miles Morales at a Brooklyn block party."
Somehow, that made Li Ran more nervous.
…
"Hey, Henry!"
The door jingled as Bobby Fish walked in, carrying a chessboard under his arm. The old man looked up from trimming Li Ran's sideburns.
Bobby blinked at the sight of Li Ran. "Well, damn. An Asian at Papa's? That's rarer than seeing Tony Stark ride the subway."
Harlem was diverse, sure, but Papa's Barbershop had always been a Black cornerstone, especially during the days of the Defenders.
"Hey, Bobby," Henry greeted without missing a snip.
"You hear about Martin?" Bobby said, setting up his chessboard near the front.
"What about him?"
"Got jumped. Him and that mouthy cousin of his. Said some dude wiped the pavement with them."
Li Ran raised an eyebrow, pretending not to notice. Martin—yes, that had been one of them.
"Not surprised," Henry said, adjusting Li Ran's head. "Told those boys—pushing folks too far ends in pain. Just like when Mariah tried to expand into Spanish Harlem. History repeats, Bobby."
"Times change, Henry. This ain't the 70s."
"But respect don't expire, Bobby. Neither do rules."
"Well, you've got the wisdom," Bobby chuckled, placing a bishop.
"Only 'cause I've made all the mistakes."
…
"Yo, Pops!"
Another figure entered the shop—Chico, a lanky guy in a Harlem hoodie.
"You're late," Henry barked, glancing at the clock beneath a signed photo of Luke Cage.
"Sorry, Dad... I mean, Mr. Henry."
"Get your apron. You're on cleanup today."
"You're too soft, Henry," Bobby said.
Henry's tone shifted, serious. "I was hard once. Spent ten years in Blackgate Prison for it."
Li Ran caught the weight in that admission. Not everyone survived Blackgate, not without scars. Clearly, Henry was more than just a barber.
Then the door creaked open again.
"Dad, I need—"
The shop was buzzing now. Word had spread. This wasn't just a place to get lined up, it was a sanctuary, a cultural hall, a place where old men debated whether T'Challa or Blade was cooler, where kids got their first cuts and life lessons.
As Henry snipped away, Li Ran heard commotion behind him.
A young Black man, smelling faintly of liquor and bravado, leaned over him.
"Yo... Yo holy shit, is that a freakin' Asian kid in Papa's?"
"Ahem. Shamik," Henry growled, pointing at a clear plastic bucket labeled Swear Jar – Stark Tech Fund. "You know the rules. One dollar per curse."
"I know, Dad, but this is wild! An Asian kid? In this shop?!"
"What's wild about it?" Henry replied, not missing a beat. "If Barack can run the country, Asians can get a haircut. You got a problem, take it up with Mrs. Chen's egg rolls, best in Harlem."
"She ain't wrong," said another man stepping in. "Luke said her dumplings are legit."
"Luke, you're late too."
"Sleep deprivation, Dad. Been patrolling rooftops with the kid from Hell's Kitchen."
Henry just sighed. "Tell Murdock to buy you a watch."
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