BOX CUTTER
Philadelphia barber's shop on wheels inspires his customers
Sanders learned how to cut hair when he was 15 years old.
Sanders sits in his barber's chair in Nice Cutz. He sees about 10 customers per day.
Sanders stands outside his mobile barbershop May 13 in Philadelphia.
William Sanders, who goes by Siddiq, stands in the entrance to Nice Cutz, his mobile barbershop that he operates out of a box truck.
Dodge Danley was getting his usual, relaxing in the reclined chair as his barber, William Sanders, carefully shaved his sideburns. Sanders, who goes by Siddiq, stepped back to assess his work. He spotted a stray whisker and moved in with the electric razor.
In almost every way, Nice Cutz looks like a typical barbershop. Next to Danley was a shampoo sink, still wet from his rinse. The TV was on. Hair products lined the wall. Near the entrance, a giant LED sign glowed "OPEN."
But when Danley's cut was finished, he stepped out of the back of a truck.
You see, Nice Cutz is not quite a barbershop.
It's a barber truck parked on a North Philly corner, where Sanders, 51, cuts hair in a business he built on wheels.
During the COVID-19 pandemic, social distancing made it hard for Sanders to keep cutting hair at the brickand-mortar shop down the street where he worked, so he focused on his other business: hawking household products and women's underwear out of a box truck he turned into a boutique. The items came from a wholesaler.
"I used to sell Victoria's Secret products out of this truck," he said, along with things like body wash, deodorant and cleaning supplies.
Once the restrictions eased, his customers from the shop kept asking when he would cut hair again, so Sanders swapped ladies' lingerie for a barber chair.
Now, the same customers who once walked through the shop's door instead climb the truck's steps and take a seat in Sanders' chair.
More privacy
Danley had his hair cut by Sanders every two weeks for the past six years. He first went to Sanders at the shop down the street.
Now he gets his cut in the truck, which he prefers. "In the barbershop, they deal with a lot of different people," Danley said. "Over here, it's more intimate. It's private."
That privacy mattered even more last summer after Danley had a stroke. He spent months recovering at Magee Rehabilitation. At first he could not walk or talk, and he had to relearn parts of his life that once felt automatic.
When he needed a haircut, he knew exactly who he wanted. "We gotta get Siddiq to come cut my hair," Danley recalled telling his fiancée at the time.
So Sanders took the truck to Magee and cut Danley's hair in his room.
It wasn't the first time Sanders traveled to cut someone's hair. Over the years, he said, he's gone to people in rehab facilities, nursing homes and other places where getting a haircut can be difficult.
The truck makes it much easier to meet his customers where they are; he takes it to popular neighborhood gatherings, like back-to-school events and North Philly's annual Carnival in the Hood.
Most days, though, he parks the truck at Broad and York and lets the customers come to him.
No storefront, no problem
And they do. He sees about 10 customers a day, depending on how long he stays out. He's technically open until 6 p.m., but he'll stay late if he needs to. "I continue cutting until there's no one left," Sanders said.
The truck costs only $7 per day to operate, and everything runs on a generator: the lights, the heat, the air-conditioning, the sink. The arrangement is cheaper than working in a store, Sanders said, where he had to cover overhead costs like renting a chair and insurance.
Sanders has been p thinking in practical terms since he was a teenager.
He's a natural. When he was about 15, he learned to cut hair in Frankford, where the barbers he and his friends saw often worked out of their houses. One day, a friend did not have enough money for a haircut, so Sanders offered to do it himself. He did such a good job, his friend never went back to the professional barber.
Then Sanders' stepfather bought him his first pair of clippers and asked for a haircut. He never went back to his regular barber, either.
Later, Sanders got his barber license and his manager license, which allows him to teach. He hasn't cut hair continuously his whole life, but the skill is always there when he needs it.
The same practical thinking shaped Sanders' decision to operate out of a truck.
The barbers he grew up going to did not need storefronts. They needed a chair, clippers and people who knew where to find them. Sanders built his version of that idea on the curb. With the truck, he can work on his own terms.
Community spark
Inspiration, it seems, is another way Nice Cutz serves the community. Neighborhood entrepreneurs come in for haircuts and leave daydreaming about business opportunities.
"Whatever they're into, they look at the structure of (the truck), and it makes them think outside the box," Sanders said.
For example, once he was walking again after his stroke, Danley bought a truck of his own. Sanders' setup gave him an idea for a mobile podcast studio, which he plans to use to record episodes of his recovery-themed podcast "Surviving the Hit." The truck has room for guests, so he can interview fellow stroke survivors. When he's not busy, he'll rent it out to other podcasters.
Sanders was getting ready to lock up the truck when Cleo Randall walked over.
Randall, 50, has known Sanders since childhood. He rode past Nice Cutz for a while, he said, and felt bad about not stopping in. When he realized Sanders was being interviewed for the newspaper, he lit up.
"You couldn't be out here with a better person," Randall said. "He's always supporting the neighborhood, serving the neighborhood, taking care of people who don't have money. All of the above."
Sanders smiled and quickly moved the conversation along. He pointed across the street, where people were waiting for a food bank to open. "They be waiting out there all day," he said.
The line gave him another idea. Sanders recently got a food cart, which sat in front of his truck. He plans to use it to give away hot dogs and sausages to his neighbors waiting across the street.
"It's just something I do," he said.
"He's always supporting the neighborhood, serving the neighborhood, taking care of people who don't have money. All of the above."
Cleo Randall
