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Class Notes
	On the cutting edge: Skills-based training provides academic alternative (Published April 21, 2003) By H. WELLS WULSIN

For the most part, the day before spring break is a wash, with teachers finishing calculations of third-quarter grades and students relaxing, chatting with friends or reading a book. Walking through the eerily silent halls, one sees many classrooms vacant and others with just a smattering of kids, but one notable exception is found on the third floor. From the outside, one might guess that this classroom is as quiet as all the others; it's distinguished only by a red-blue-white candy stripe and a poster of the cast of "Barbershop."

The door is locked, but a knock is promptly answered by a smock-clad student. Within, the H.D. Woodson Barbershop hums like a machine. Each of six hydraulic chairs is occupied and is being swirled around, pumped up and down, angled toward one mirror, then another. Some are getting a facial, others a shave, trim or full-scale re-styling. Tonic and aftershave sting on the necks and open the nostrils. There's no radio here, the only music provided by the low moan of buzzers, the metallic slicing of shears and the sucking-gurgling of sinks. At the desks, a score of waiting customers bide their time, braiding hair, flipping through the sports pages, beating a drum rhythm on their chair.

I have come on this day by special request because a senior, Tyronne (not his real name), is scheduled to take his licensing exam in two weeks. He already has a 100 percent score on the written section of the exam, and now to pass the practical, he must demonstrate proficiency cutting hair of several types, including curly and straight hair. While local elementary school groups provide ample testing ground for curly hair, straight-haired subjects are difficult to come by. My blonde head, one of the only ones for miles around, is a surprisingly rare commodity.

For a teacher to willingly be put under the blade by a student requires a substantial degree of trust, for it amounts to a somewhat awkward power reversal. I was trimmed for the first time last year by a senior I didn't know who abruptly told me on the stairs one day that I was getting long on top. He was right, so I accepted his offer for a cut, and returned regularly throughout the year. Ultimately, I trust the students' expertise, combined with the oversight of the barber science instructor, Mr. Davis. My father always cut my hair when I was growing up (I had never been to a barber before college), and as the eldest child, I was used to being the first victim of experimentation.

A girl midway through a facial still has a dab of cream on her forehead but is hurriedly displaced when Tyronne sees that I've arrived. I offer to wait, but he insists that I'm a higher priority. If he doesn't practice on straight hair, he risks failing the practical, which means he loses the $190 testing fee and must wait several months before taking the exam again. So he offers me a seat in the soft chair, wraps the vinyl smock over my torso and lap, and gets to work.

What most impresses me about the Woodson barbershop is the sense of purpose driving every member of the class. Each student works the entire time they are in the shop. Over the intercom earlier this morning, Mr. Davis had announced that free haircuts would be offered all day long, and the shop was quickly besieged by more hairdos than it could handle, giving lots of training to the practicing barbers.

At 3:45 the remaining students had to be turned away to leave time to close up. Brooms came out of the closet, sponges hit the counters, towels flew into the laundry bin. The end of the day is a tempting time to duck out, avoiding the grunt work and getting an early start on the weekend. But a strict code of responsibility self-regulates the system. In one case, Mr. Davis has to break up two boys fighting over a broom.

"Come on, let it go," pleads one.

"Naw, man, I had this first," retorts the other. Mr. Davis separates the two and hands the broom to one triumphant boy.

A big upperclassman who might play halfback on the football team heads toward the door.

"Whoa, looks like someone's trying to leave early on y'all," Mr. Davis calls out. A chorus of protests erupts from the other busily working students.

"No way," the accused responds, visibly swayed by the public outcry. Holding up a crumpled scrap of paper, he offers a defense: "I was just coming to drop this in the trash." Defeated, he lets his book bag fall off his shoulder and returns to his task.

Teachers — myself included — often become overwhelmed playing the tiring and unenjoyable role of policeman. But here, enforcement comes from every angle — the team has a job to do and everyone must lend a hand. The students here don't need constant external motivation to work hard. They want to do a good job because they take ownership over their accomplishments, so the drive toward excellence comes from within.

The educational reformer John Dewey proclaimed at the turn of the 20th century that students need to learn by doing. Practicing skills such as sewing, woodworking, cooking or plumbing engages children in ways that purely academic pursuits cannot. The District now has just one vocational high school, M.M. Washington, with McKinley slated to replace the now-closed Phelps next year.

Vocational education serves such an important need for some of our students that we cannot afford to ignore it. Dewey's point is often neglected today as we push our youth toward tougher standards and higher scores. Intellectual pursuits offer vast rewards, but not every child is destined for academia. Some will profit more from skills-based training than from a typical college-preparatory curriculum.

After almost an hour of meticulous buzzing and shearing, Tyronne spins me around for a look. I turn my head side to side to inspect his work. Sideburns — even. Back — smooth taper. Top — thinned but still flat. Overall, not bad for a first try.

As he dusts off my neck and whisks off my smock, I take stock of the room around me. From the reflective black-and-white tiled floor, the sparkling porcelain sinks, the smooth white counters, there is little evidence of the dozens of students who have come and left here today. But a bag of dirty towels — taken home by one student who volunteered to wash them over the weekend — and a giant mass of hair in the trash can are proof enough that these boys have put in a hard day of work.

I shake Tyronne's hand to thank him, and he looks me in the eye with a smile. It's a job well done.