Annette John-Hall | Shave 'n' a haircut, and words to live by

"This is the barbershop! The place where a black man means something! Cornerstone of the neighborhood! Our own country club!"

- Cedric the Entertainer, as Eddie the veteran barber in the 2002 film Barbershop

On a real-life tip, the movie's monologue painfully hit home for Dr. Keith Leaphart when his own barber, Michael White, became Philadelphia's 96th murder victim of the year.

The cold-blooded murder of White, 32 - a father of two who was gunned down in March in front of his popular shop, Hair Infatuations - rocked West Oak Lane to its core. Anybody could tell you that, for a decade, White's barbershop stood as a pillar in the community.

Didn't matter if you were a toddler or an Eagles football player; those who had the good fortune to come in contact with White's magic clippers would leave not only touched up, but tuned in and renewed in spirit.

Because Hair Infatuations, like most barbershops in the 'hood, is a bastion for black men to be who they want to be and say what they want to say - an eight-chair therapist's couch, manned by haircutters doing double duty as ghetto psychologists.

It wasn't until White's passing that Leaphart, 32, a rehabilitative physician and founder of Rainmakers Inc., an economic empowerment group for African American professionals, realized how important a resource the barbershop could be as an effective tool to end the violence.

We can wring our hands while the numbers pile up and hold all the violence symposiums we can stand, but that won't do a thing to pull us out of, as Leaphart says, a "crisis state."

"It's like we have a mini-Iraq right here in Philly."

We sure aren't getting any ideas from our esteemed higher-ups. As the murder rate skyrockets, their silence is deafening.

The sad fact is, we have a police commissioner who's counting the days to retirement, and we have a lame-duck mayor who can sit for six hours to buy the latest gadget but, when it comes to speaking out on the genocide-like killing that's happening on his digital watch, he puts himself on mute.

Leaphart's Man-Up initiative calls on - or rather calls out - black men to take responsibility as the fathers, providers and producers of positive role models they once were.

What better place, he figures, to start than the barbershop, a safe haven where a barber can help mold a young mind while he's trimming a hairline?

Studies say many young black boys start losing an interest in school by sixth grade. By eighth grade, only 9 percent score at grade level or better in reading.

These are the same youngsters that barbers have as a captive audience for 30 to 40 minutes, as often as once a week.

"I saw my barber more than I saw my dad," admits Leaphart, who grew up in West Oak Lane, raised by a single mother. "I'm asking the barbers: Pick one kid who comes to the shop and be a mentor to him. Keep him on track, ask him about his homework. [Barbershops] are the last line of defense in our community."

Last week, Leaphart took his appeal to three shops in Overbrook, where he lives. He appealed to barbers and got into some spirited exchanges with customers.

Barbershop talk.

"Breakdown in discipline, no family structure. It shows in the street," says barber Rob Green.

"Used to be, my mom could look at me and didn't have to say nothing," says SEPTA worker Barry Sanders, 51, who was getting cut in Green's shop. "Now, the kids look at the moms and the moms don't say nothing."

"Ain't no grown men giving people direction," complained a 25-year-old customer. "Ain't nothing for the kids to do around here, and the politicians ain't doing nothing to help. . . . Bob Brady's my congressman, and I ain't never seen him."

Leaphart took down the names and numbers and promised to use their conversations to firm up a comprehensive Man-Up agenda.

He has the right idea. We're not going to get anywhere if work doesn't begin from the ground up.

Because don't let the silence of those at the top fool you. We're a city in crisis. That fact rings as loudly as gunfire in the dead of night, or the light of day.