My New African Haircut

In the past 5 years, I have received haircuts in just about every venue imaginable in the United States. In Pennsylvania, I’ve gotten my ‘ears lowered’ at the lowliest of hair management joints (Supercuts) as well as my nostalgic childhood hair salon, Lu Chic in Aspinwall. (‘Chich’ is still cutting hair there and is still one of the nicest people ever. She cuts a mean hairdo, too.) I’ve been to the coast of Maine, where a cute 21 year-old had dropped out of school to cut hair (she was also exceedingly kind, come to think of it) and to countless places in Ann Arbor, searching for the cheapest ‘buzzer cut.’ Most recently, I’ve been to New York City, where I received the best (and surprisingly least expensive) haircut to date from a Russian Jew named Bruno or Brutus (his accent was so thick) who had huge hands… but his digits worked so delicately with a hair dryer. I’ve even cut my own hair—using clippers, scissors, and once a beard trimmer (this was a bad idea) and made countless messes in countless bathroom, causing countless sinks and tubs to be clogged. In Washington DC, I accidently got a ‘fade’ from a Korean barber, which I hated with a passion but all my students loved—“Nice fade, Mr. J!”

All of these haircutting experiences are dwarfed by the one that I had on Monday night.

My roommate had been mentioning about us getting a haircut and a shave together for about two weeks. As I get to know my roommate better, I have noticed his perfection when it comes to cleanliness and neatness—which is shared by many well-to-do Kenyans. I think that it is a sign of class distinction. He irons his clothes for a long time (wrinkles=crime!) and he showers twice to three times a day. He gets a cut and shave about 3 times a month. I think that he was starting to get a little anxious about my appearance.

Okay, so,I like to go a little wolfman every once and awhile… see how burly I can get my beard to be. As the Chewonkites know, my beard has ‘speed patches,’ (coined by none other than the furriest Sorting Hat himself—Jason Chandler) that give me incredible agility on the Frisbee pitch. Aka, my beard does not get too burly.

Regardless, it seemed like this year the good old face-warmer was really having a great year. The speed patches had grown in a bit—Celeste thinks it has to do with the heat here in Malindi—and I wanted to get a decently bushy one going. But Abu Bakar kept insisting.

I needed a haircut, anyway—I wasn’t on the Long Trail anymore. So I succumbed to the pressure and went along. Don’t worry—I first asked about the sanitation. Razors in Africa? A little scary. Abubakar assured me that we got our own blade and that they sanitized everything before it met the scalp. Phew.

We walked into a neighborhood that looked like all the rest—little shops that sold Coke in glass bottles, candy, shoe polish, other sundry items. The roads dusty, the shops dustier. We came to a little store with bright lights and there she was—our barbershop.

I don’t remember the name of it—I was decently overwhelmed—but there was a bench outside where ‘the crew’ hung out. There was a huge window in the front, so I saw into a well-lit, dirty white room with four seats all facing one long mirror. Of course, I was the only white man there, just about anywhere in these little neighborhoods, but it didn’t really matter. My barber looked Arab-Kenyan, like many do in Malindi—but he was more on the Arab side. He had well-manicured hair (come to think of it, everyone does in hair places), but his haircut resembled somewhat of the New York Italian persuasion. Chiseled out sideburns, nice fade (Mr. J!), and the curly top.

I took a seat on what resembled an old computer chair. The counter was a dirty off-white, there was a basket with combs and other assorted tools. I asked him if he used scissors. No, he said. (Of course not, what African would need scissors for his hair?) He then put a holey rag over my shoulders and asked me how I wanted it.

“Not too short.”

(Probably the most common answer in the history of barbershops.)

He began with the sides with the buzzer. I took a look at them—Wahl brand, not bad. Of course they were dirty—everything is in Africa—but they worked well. Plus, he did use that alcohol sanitation. There were posters of just about every decent English football club there was adorned on the walls and ceiling. Above the mirror near me was an 8x11 sheet of paper that had the different haircuts that they offered. I only recognized one—‘the blowout’ (figures) and was very curious about what a ‘scrub’ was. I then noticed that the basket was on top of something—an old microwave from the 1990s.

“Why do you have a microwave in here?”

“You get a free hot dog after your haircut!” I thought this could be serious, but everyone laughed.

Okay, so his haircut was subpar. What do you expect? How many mzungus come into that place? He used the buzzers unevenly on the top of my head. But, it is pretty short (it always is, except with Bruno), so I probably won’t go back for a few months.

But, I do admit, his beard work was exquisite. He took his time, used the razor to make my ‘edge.’ He evened out my cheek follicles. He got the moustache under control. It is the best my beard has ever looked.

As I was leaving, I asked Abu Bakar how much it cost (he still pays for things even though I insist). 150 shillings (about 2 dollars, depending on the exchange rate)! What a deal!

Later, he admitted that I was starting to look like Jesus.

“But he was a prophet, too!!”