I am not sure which was worse, the hair cut my sister Kristen gave me in High School, or the one I just received in Nairobi.
When Kristen cut my hair, I knew I was in trouble when she started repeating, “I am so sorry. I am so sorry,” as she unintentionally cut the back of my hair in a diagonal.
When John in Nairobi cut my hair, I knew I was in trouble as soon as I walked into the salon. My entrance brought a confused look to John’s face which I assume was a combination of wondering “how do you cut mzungu hair?” and “how much can I charge her?” In Kenya, there are few set prices and few mzungus (white people).
When I sat in the salon chair, John, perplexed, stared at my hair and asked “Do you want the whole thing cut?”
“Yes, just cut it straight across,” I said, amused at the uncertainty of the outcome of this adventure.
A co-worker came to John’s aid, eager to join the spectacle. The two of them, taking turns advising each other, proceeded to cut my hair “straight across” (but straight across when all the hair is pulled to the back makes the front pieces significantly longer than the ones in the back, which was not what I or the barbers intended).
The plastic-handled scissors did not look like hair-cutting scissors to me, and without wetting my hair first, the “straight” cut was doomed from the outset. But the experience was priceless.
The largest difference in my two haircut fiascos was the reaction of the barbers. While my sister was keenly aware of the damage she did to my hair and the fact that I would go immediately to a salon to get it evened out, John looked at his finished masterpiece with great pride. “Now you will not have to worry about it anymore,” he said smiling, glad to be of help. I thanked him.
As I put the hair that was left in a short ponytail, John noticed a group of hairs sticking out farther than the others. “Can I cut this one?” he asked.
“Sure,” I responded, assuming he would cut the longer strands to match the length of the others. I was wrong. He just cut the longer group from its root at my scalp. Wow, I can’t believe he did that, I thought to myself, wondering how many months it would take for that part to catch back up with the others.
John was still beaming with pride. He then took the rubberband out of my hair and tried to create a ponytail by himself (at which point I think he was just enjoying trying something new). He struggled to figure out how to wrap the rubberband around the hair, “I have no idea how to do this” he said light heartedly.
I have been cutting Shelvis’ hair for a year now, and that day he had his first chance to return the favor. “Just cut it straight” I told him when I returned to our apartment.
The experience was comic, but a good reminder of the things I take for granted being in the majority ethnic group in my home country. I do not have to look as hard as Shelvis to find someone who knows how to cut my hair in the US.
In the US, I do not have to wonder if “flesh” colored band-aids will match my skin. Also, in the US, I am not given the daunting assignment of speaking on behalf of my people, which is a regular task of mine here in East Africa (sometimes I am asked to speak for all “Americans” and sometimes for all “white people”, both are impossible for me to do accurately).
It is good to be reminded of the things I take for granted, as it makes me aware that my experiences in the US are not the same as someone from a minority ethnic group. So, for that reason, I am grateful to John for the unforgettable haircut. (And Kristen, I forgave you years ago)
Posted on April 1st, 2010 by Nancy
Filed under: Uncategorized