Hair

Nowadays, the single most outstanding matter that evokes in me a feeling of wanting to catch the next plane home is, believe it or not— hair. On such occassions, I DO NOT envision myself packing stuff neatly in suitcases. The scene is usually a hurried event, where I am erratically throwing stuff onto a bedsheet, and a leso, then making a huge knot to secure a mob of clothes and shoes, then heading to the airport!

When we came to Switzerland, my husband gave me the esteemed role of managing his hair, a.k.a. barber. This, despite my inexperience in the craft. But I was a willing and diligent learner and my first, second and probably third attempts were complemented. I have to add that inspite of all the love I have for him, I did not enjoy cutting his hair. My only motivation was the fact that he seemed to thoroughly enjoy his wife’s hands on his head. The day of reckoning was not far off. Things went haywire. Horribly. I shaved-off a section of his head completely clean, down to the scalp. No, I was not angry at him at all. It just happened.

The only remedy was to shave the whole head completely clean. Which should not have been so bad, except for the fact that no-one had ever seen him looking that way. To which he endured much teasing from the kids and I. But it was his next move that completely threw me off the rope! His ‘wisdom’ directed him to completely shave off his moustache, to match the head look?! The results were dumpfounding to say the least. For two weeks, I kept averting my eyes away from his face because I kept thinking I was looking at someone else. I also worried that somebody at work would think he’d been to jail over the weekend. And yes, his collegues threw him side- quizzical looks! Thankfully, his hair grows quick and soon we were back to normalty.

For my two girls and I, I was told of an ‘African’ salon in the city. In reality, it is a dingy crammed up hot room, which, in addition to doing hair, also sells all manner of ‘African merchandise’ ranging from fish, cassavas, and such like. It should have been fine, if only a little degree of hygiene was observed. Which is far from the case. However, I quickly bonded with the Jamaican mama, who did my daughters’ hair. Anyone that can do a wash and straight blow-dry of Lau’s thick and long hair gets a medal from me. My girls did not even flinch. So I got a little clever and arranged for her to be coming home to do my girls hair, thereby, addressing the hygiene matters, and ofcourse she would pocket all the profits.

The arrangement worked perfectly for a while. She seemed like a really good person, which in another life she must have been. After a while, she would not show up for appointments, for no apparent reason. On such occassions, when I called her she sounded very groggy. It was obvious she has another life apart for doing hair. The worst she dealt me was the Easter weakend, when she failed to show up to do my hair. I had wanted to look nice in corn rows, all weekend, instead, I had to perservere an unintended afro.

That was the beginning of my hair woes. I can’t do hair. I don’t like to do hair. But now, it looks like I have to. One day, after forcing myself to look at myself in the mirror, I took the clippers and cleared the entire mass! I cut-off the remnants of a perm that was last re-touched nine months ago, leaving about 2 inches of my natural hair. The look was far from bad, I liked it, though it’s been a long while since I last wore that look. But when my son walked in, he nearly cried.

My son is very possessive about what I do with my hair. He is the one person who will be first to notice anything new I do to my hair. Once in South Africa, a well-meaning hairdresser talked me into putting what she termed as a very ‘trendy weave’. I knew it was a mistake the moment she was done. We spent more time clipping here and there, until my time ran out. I had to get home. My son exclaimed, ” Mum, why did you do that?”

(You know, when you are from a salon, people are supposed to say nice things. Not so with my lill boy. )

When I was putting him to bed, in resignation to my new hairdo, he said, “Now I have a new mummy..” If it hadn’t costed me so much, I would have taken it out the following day.

Now, constantly, I find myself thinking of Rachael. She was my Kenyan hairdresser, who knew just about everything that I needed as far as hair goes. Including what magazine I should read while she works on my head.

And ‘Watotos’ salon in Hurlingam. A children’s salon where they even feed the kids as they do their hair. It comes completely equipped with a telly, toys, clean loo, and pastels-painted walls to make kids relax while they get pretty. [I am gnashing my teeth]

Alright, so I have had to face the blow-drier. The other day, I spent no less than 3 hours Googling and taking notes on how to shampoo, blow-dry and style african hair. I have learnt much. Of atmost importance is that hair must be completely soaked with water before putting shampoo! That just tells you what a long way I have to go in this journey.

I lasted a while with my hair as an afro. It felt nice and authentic, but the day I was attending an important interview,  I wanted something sleekier, and so I headed downtown Zurich. I had an appointment with a different hairdresser, whose discovery is a post by itself!  However, we did not click at all, and after just a few minutes on her seat I was out in a huff!

 Normally, I like to give a new encounter a chance, or a benefit of doubt. But this specimen of a lady belongs in a class of her own. (another possible post!)

A while later, found me roaming along Langstrasse, reknown for all things from elsewhere-else-but-Swiss,  searching for a quick solution. I found and walked into another salon. The lady was Africaanish… ish and her salon was clean(my first criteria for a passable salon). First attempt at conversation failed. She squeks in nothing else but Espanol! Loudly too. How now? Her entire clientelle is Espanol, I concluded from the few that dropped by. Tell you what, I was not going anywhere until she made me pretty. We used sign language and I walked out with a short but cutely styled perm!

The future? I don’t know. Maybe I’ll learn.