🪒 "Crop Over Betrayal: What the Breeze Brought Back from Barbados" | Retold by Roselyn A St Claire

🪒 A barbershop tale...

💭 One woman flew in for love.... What she walked in on could’ve grounded anyone.

I’ve always believed a barbershop and a salon should never be a joint venture—unless they’re completely separate spaces. Men need a place to speak freely, unwind, and share without filters. So do women. Just my two cents.

Anyway, that’s where this story begins.

When I need a quick in-between eyebrow cleanup—nothing fancy, and definitely no waxing—I visit this one barbershop on the main strip in the city. It’s one of four barbershops on the same street, and the only reason I even started going to this one is because the others were closed or out to lunch the first day I tried. Lucky me, I guess.

Since then, I’ve kept going back to the same Jamaican barber. He doesn’t overdo it, always remembers how I like my brows shaped, and doesn’t talk my ear off. Bonus: the shop also has a salon section off to the side. Separate enough to let men and women vent, vibe, and flow without stepping on each other’s energy.

Now—onto the story that was told while I was waiting in the chair.

One of the barbers, in between shaping up a guy’s beard, started sharing a story he brought back from Barbados. It was about a friend of his, a pilot with Caribbean Airlines. Apparently, a few years back, a group of pilots and their partners had planned a trip to Crop Over. The pilots flew ahead a few days early to sort out rooms, rentals, and all the logistics. The others followed a couple of days later, ready to celebrate and unwind.

One of those women—let’s call her Tasha—was especially excited. She and her partner had been together for over ten years. They lived together, talked about marriage, and this trip was supposed to be one of those unforgettable bonding weekends. As soon as their plane landed, she tried to call her woman to say she had arrived. No answer. A few of the other women shrugged it off—maybe the signal was bad, maybe her phone died.

They all hopped into the same taxi bus and headed to the hotel.

When they got there, Tasha checked in, got the room number, and took the elevator up. Fifth floor. She knocked on the door. No response. Knocked again. Nothing.

Coincidentally, a maintenance guy was walking by, and she asked if he could help. She explained it was her fiancée’s room, and she’d just flown in. He agreed to assist and opened the door. But when they tried to walk in, they realized the chain lock was still latched from inside. No problem—he had a tool for that, too.

Within minutes, she was inside.

The room was quiet. Almost too quiet.

She tiptoed toward the bedroom, maybe expecting to find her partner still sleeping after a late night of partying. But what she actually found stopped her in her tracks.

Her woman, naked, asleep, and tucked lovingly in the arms of a man. They were spooning like old lovers, the kind of closeness that spoke of hours—not minutes—of passion. A tangle of arms, legs, and bedsheets. Their bare bodies were still slightly glistening. Tasha stood there, taking it all in.

She didn’t scream. She didn’t throw anything. No keys tossed. No fists flying.

Instead, she calmly walked up to the bed and tapped her partner on the shoulder.

Oddly, it was the man who woke up first. Groggy and confused, he sat up and asked, “Who the hell are you?”

Before her fiancée could answer, Tasha lifted her hand and said, “I’m her fiancée. We’ve been together ten years. I came here to spend the weekend with her.”

The silence that followed must’ve felt like thunder.

The woman mumbled something about not knowing what was happening. The man just sat there blinking, probably wondering how he ended up in the middle of a woman’s worst nightmare—and still naked.

Back in the barbershop, you could’ve heard a pin drop. One guy dropped his comb. Another whispered a long, drawn-out “Damn.” I just sat there, wide-eyed, silently thanking the universe for exposing what needed to be revealed—even if it came wrapped in heartbreak.

That’s island life for you. The breeze doesn’t just carry salt—it carries secrets, too.

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🌀 Reflection

There’s something intimate about the moment just before betrayal makes itself known. It’s quiet. Heavy. Still. And when the silence breaks, it’s not always with a scream—but sometimes with the calm of a woman who’s been through enough to know when to walk out, not blow up.

Tasha didn’t just catch a lover cheating. She caught a decade of trust folding in on itself. Yet her dignity didn’t leave her body. That’s the part that stays with me.

In a time when love, sex, and loyalty all seem to orbit different suns, stories like this remind us that betrayal doesn’t always show up in shadows. Sometimes it’s right there in the daylight, tangled in bedsheets, daring you to open the door.

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