I’ve been getting a couple of ‘you’re lost’s lately. Some were borne out of sincere concern from people I have been intentionally avoiding and as such who have every right to point out that I have not been ‘common in their faces’. With them saying shit like that, i don’t think I need to get into why I avoid them.
The other lot of people have actually seen me, but didn’t recognise me. You see, folks, I have an embarassing confession to make. I have been harbouring an afro.
Don’t be so quick to judge me, REV had hair too! The only difference is that he wore his proud like something was trying eating him up from the head and working it’s way down (thank you Baz).
So why would I have this atrocity? Why would I keep mounds of hair on my head that I did not have any intention of clumping together in a dreadful formation (dreadlocks, try to keep up).simple, I am scared of barbers, and with good reason too. Allow me to introduce you to some I have met.
Mark is a decent enough barber. I use his services from time to time not just because he is cheap, but because I generally don’t believe in letting some random barber handle my head. Now that I think of it, that statement was reeking of innuendo! Man it would suck if we were in times were everybody was obsessing over homosexuals.
So anyway. this one time I went over for a haircut and he seemed a little out of sorts. So I ask him whether he is okay and he lets out a sigh, shakes his head and then looks at me and says, “Some chic poisoned me last night”
I was alarmed, as you can imagine. No way was I going to let a dead guy touch my hair. What if he was in mid cut and thought, “shit, I need company!” then proceeded to slit my throat.
I asked him whether he would be able to cut my hair, let alone find it.
Another sigh and then he said, “I’m fine.” This he said, whilst leaning against the wall and rubbing his eyes.
I can’t remember why I did it, but I let him do his thing. It wasn’t the shabbiest haircut I’d gotten, but it wasn’t the best either. I suppose his fingers kept getting in the way of his line of vision, what with constantly rubbing them.
Supa Strikas Henry
Yes, I know I just said I don’t entrust my head with just anybody, but sometimes circumstances dictate that you do things a little differently. . .
Henry loves soccer, I don’t. He is crazy about some team called Microsoft United or something and has duds like Whine Ruiney passing the ball around the field.
The only time I express any interest in soccer is when I want to antagonize someone. I only recently decided that I like Chelsea (not the Clinton).
Henry doesn’t like Chelsea. One may go as far as suggesting that he may have picked up Herpes from Chelsea and he has sworn to have his vengeance since.
I didn’t know that when, as he cut my hair, I proudly declared that Chelsea was the shit!
I first realised that something was amiss when the odd buzzing noise from the machine stopped. Then I couldn’t feel the weight on my head. Then Henry was quiet. Was this going to be the end of our customer-barber friendship?
I gazed at the reflection in the mirror, looking for some sort of sign that Henry was there. He was there, but clearly his heart wasn’t in it anymore.
Not my best haircut, not my worst.
Wandering Fingers something or the other
This haircut took place the day before my graduation. I needed a decent cut so I went out of my way to find it. Salon Ambience over on Dewinton has a reputation for being badass when it comes to such things so, I made my way there. (How the hell is it possible that I am being asked to correct how I have spelt Dewinton and badass is getting away with it?)
Upon getting to Dewinton road I was ushered to my seat by an extra. He asked me how I wanted it and in my oh-so-tired state I replied, ‘short’. He laughed. I missed the joke.
As he went about his business, he kept scrubbing my hair with a toothy instrument that resembled, albeit in the slightest shape and form, a hair brush. Then he reached for the blow dryer to make sure that what little hair had attempted to lay low was blown away for eternity.
He also used every possible attempt to grab my skull. Yes, he held my head so tight, I am sure he made contact with my cerebral cortex at some point.or came away with some grey matter.
I particularly hate having my moustache shaved, because it has all sorts of touchy implications to it. Barbers have an annoying tendency to try and get their knuckles within close proximity to your lips at such moments. What the hell is that about? Is this the Godfather? I half expect him to go like, “you have offended me,and my family, but I will let you make amends. Here, kiss my knuckle!”
This haircut concluded with an offer I could and did refuse. No, I do not want you to give me a facial!!!!
That said, you can see why Barbers terrify me. However, today I figured I’d be brave. My hair had grown out of han.head! So I gathered my wits about me and then went to the salon where I met.
Dude has a side business some place and earns a commission for every haircut he.does? makes? slices? What word goes with the act of cutting hair? Shit, I’ve been out the game for so long.
Anyway. Alfred proceeded to tell me that I have nice hair. I didn’t know what to say to that so I proceeded to respond as any red blooded male would upon being paid such an off handed compliment. I snorted!
He wasn’t phased.
He said you can’t really tell unless you cut my hair to ‘ground level’.
I can totally see myself cultivating another afro.