The haircut

---

Today I decided that I would venture into town and get my hair cut. Since my buzz at SuperCuts Atlanta some months back my Jewfro has been ascending. I bypassed the street shavers, the ones with the rusted metal blades under the tree and decided to go high class: the Kisumu Beauty School. It is located in a shopping plaza on the fourth floor. Just reaching the fourth floor was a challenge - a maze of hidden stairs and locked doors.

The lady at the plywood desk was unsure if they gave male haircuts. After a short consultation with the male hairdresser in the place, I was assured that indeed that they do. The price? “200/=” ($3) he said with the gingerly questioning emphasis that one learns to detect from those not used to ripping off foreigners…as if to say, 'are you going to buy this incredibly inflated price that I just quoted?' Not that $3 is too much for a haircut. I’ve truly lost that hagglin’ feeling, but I can never settle when someone is so obviously testing my ignorance of local prices. We quickly settled on half that fee. If I come back with friends, he tells me on the sly, I should tell them it is 150/=. Right, I’m all about ripping off my friends for the benefit of people I’ve just met. Three women were in the center of the room learning to put hair weaves into mannequins. All learning stopped and attention was turned to the mzungu haircut.

I settled into the chair got a towel and apron and asked if they have a size 5 guard for the clippers. "no, they only go up to 4 in Africa." Doubtful. So he combed out my hair and used the size 3 guard like a flowbie, gingerly buzzing a nice bowl shaped cut with slow methodical motions. 25 minutes in I thought we were done as he took off my apron, my face completely covered in shavings. No, he beckoned me over to the professional hair washing chair....without running water. A bucket shampoo and conditioner rinse!

Are we done? No. Back to the chair where I get a fresh apron and towel. And some box cutting scissors are wielded around my head in a jerky motion. But this time he is pulling each individual errant hair up and cutting. Metal flashes in front of my face, great stabbing motions. I close my eyes, hope it will be over. I ask him to lay off the front, remembering that time in 10th grade when Antonio my family barber got drunk and gave me a mullet. About 50 minutes into the haircut, I decide I'm done. Do I want oil for my hair? No. Do I look ridiculous? Surprisingly, not any more than usual. Actually, I look exactly the same as when I went in, which is a lot better than it could have been. Things were looking dim for a while there. I'm all about cultural experiences, but consider this a request to all of you out there: send me clippers.

---

Comments

[Suzanne]

I am just disappointed that there is not a picture!! Thanks for the laugh at your expense. sdm

[schmee]

you have a family barber?

[Dan]

Where's the Pic
you're such a tease...