Hustlin' Only Hurts the Hair

Two things I have found out about myself in recent years: Homeless men gravitate towards me and schizophrenics want to stab me with a shiv. Luckily, I encountered the first this morning and not the second (but the day is young . . .).
Homeless man, I will call him Sanders, gets off the bus and heads over to the Greyhound station where I am waiting outside for office to open. There is a group of five of us waiting outside and with the addition of Sanders that makes six. Sanders makes a bee line for me and begins to tell me about his girlfriend, an ex-nurse, who is abusing prescription drugs. Unfortunately for the man who had been pacing up and down the side walk, Sanders decision to talk to me is impeding his pacing. He now has to pace back and forth in a four foot square.
While Pacey keeps looking angrily in Sanders direction, Sanders continues his life story. Apparently, he has some sort of hustlin' turf war with his barber. I'm not sure what they are hustlin' but I am fairly certain it involves cans (he kept talking about his barber taking his cans and getting nickels and dimes for them). However, the real issue is not the hustlin' turf war but the fact that Sanders' barber because of the turf war now refuse to cut Sanders' hair. And Sanders, based not on my own judgment (he was wearing a hat) but on his own admission, hasn't gotten a decent hair cut in months.
"Why can't we just put things aside for a hair cut, man?" Sanders asked me. "We hustlin' but its a hair cut. Why can't we just get along for the hair? I mean its hair, man. Think about it. Whose you hurtin'?"
You're only hurting the hair, man. Only the hair.