Snip. Snip. Snap.

It is true Nairobi didn’t offer a proper haircut to this whitey. The only techniques known by black East Africans are the shave and the scalp. We’re talking down to the source, which goes against my religion (fashion, if you didn’t know). Further, I have an irrational fear of clippers. To avoid such treatment, I found myself the best hairstylist who never subjected me to a tearful meeting with clippers— Jason @ Cha Cha, located at East Mifflin next to Café Monmartre. Throughout the entirety of childhood, haircuts turned for the worse at the hands of clippers. The buzzing sound makes me cringe and close my eyes in terror. In Uganda, something so treacherous accompanies the sound of clippers, goose bumps raise up on my arm just thinking about it: the fade and angular shape of hairlines. Yes, the practice of fading hair to naked flesh the closer you come to the hairline. To make matters worse, the clippers shape the hairline into sharp corners. Such treatment is enough to bring this man to tears or avoid the barber chair since August.

For months, people in my village sent their subtle hints that I needed a haircut.

“Omodiŋ, you look like a woman with such long hair,” the head teacher commented, clearly trying to work shame and embarrassment into the conversation.

“The meaning of your name is now on the top of your head,” an old woman proclaimed upon hearing Omodiŋ (meaning bush) in an introduction.

“I know a man who cuts Hindi people’s hair in town. I can show you where,” Nathan offered casually when I mentioned how long hair is not conducive to warm weather.

The idea of “looking smart” was another reason why I decided to forgo a cut. How someone looks doesn’t measure intelligence. What if a person doesn’t have the money to buy clothes or a haircut deemed appropriately smart? Does that make him dimwitted? I think not! Some of the greatest minds have the scariest appearances. Despite all the effort to grow out my mop, after the cold weather of Nairobi, the village felt more a sauna then ever. I could take it no longer.

I took myself outside and commenced an internal pep talk. True, I could never achieve the perfect haircut Jason gave me every three weeks. I may very well annihilate my hair to the point of ruin but it would grow back. Not as quickly as Harry Potter’s hair, but still . . . Anything was better than fading and shaping and shaving. I would make sure not to cut off any digits. I would go slow, take my time, think through each cut. I set up my station on the stoop of my house, hand mirror hanging from the window. I approached my first cut and took a deep breath. After five minutes practicing moving my scissors while using a mirror to accurately position the blades to cut my hair, I felt comfortable enough.

Snip snip snip.I refused to make straight cuts along my fingers, opting to make cuts into the hair, leaving angular inclines throughout. Nothing would be of the same length but of a general ballpark range. I kept the hair wet as I snipped, trying to blend the edges to avoid the bowl cut fashion I sported throughout my middle school career. I shudder at the thought. How horrifyingly ugly. Working to the frontal bangs, I never closed the scissors but rather used the juncture where the scissors met to glide along the hair. Nearing completion, I towel dried and worked product (picked up in Nairobi) into the hair to give it shape. Then, I finalized my cuts and looked at my hands to make sure all five fingers remained. Successful in both, I smiled with pride and went to dress for the ensuing wedding of the day.

*

After waiting 20 minutes for Nathan to show, I decided to walk to his house and proceed to the wedding from there. The moment I stepped outside, my neighbor started yelling how smart I looked in my dress clothes. This was my first time wearing the only nice clothes I packed before heading to Uganda. In fact, I had to unpack them from my suitcase for the occasion. Grey trousers (pants here are underwear), a pink H&M shirt, Kenneth Cole tie and Kenneth Cole dress shoes. I felt like I was standing in a broiler, beads of sweat gathering on my brow. I rushed through the sunlight across the compound to Nathan’s house and sat down on his porch.

At this point, children gathered from the neighbor’s houses to look at me in my smart clothes. “Elai Omodiŋ. Elaete ikongoen. You look so smart. You have formal clothes,” the children showered compliments as they stared. I smiled and brushed the sweat from my brow.

Hearing conversation on the porch, Nathan walked outside to meet me, still shining his loafers with a brush and shoe polish. Usually, Ugandans make greeting their first priority but Nathan knows that Americans don’t practice such things so seriously. Concentrating on the task, he didn’t look up until Dickens, his son, came outside and shouted, “Iŋai bon ŋin, Papa? Who is that, Dad?”

He looked up and immediately smiled, “Wow! You cut your hair. Where?”

“I did it myself. I figured if no one knows how to cut muzungu hair, I might as well try. It turned out pretty nice.”

“You look smart. I think you should not have long hair again.”

“Not sure about that, but it’s nice to know the option is available for a proper haircut.”

“We should go to the wedding. It was to start at 11 this morning. It is now half passed midday,” Nathan suggested as he put on shoes.

“Yeah, I’m sure they haven’t started yet. You know, African time.”

“True. In that case, let us take a cup of tea. The ceremony may run long.”

*

We eventually made our way to the wedding around 1 PM. As we neared the church, Nathan began to set out rules for our attendance, “I will only stay until 3 PM. They will not consume my day. We leave promptly at 3.”

“Ha. Easy for you. You stand up and leave. I stand up and everyone looks at me!” I remind him while pointing to my skin, causing him to laugh and shake his head.

Coming upon the church, the pastor walked out and shook our hands, exchanging greetings. Then, he ushered us into the grass-thatched hut church and showed us to our seats. He took me to the front, just beside the guest pastor and then moved towards the congregation to show Nathan his seat. I immediately knew this would bind my attendance to the end and made a move for transfer, “I sit by him. If I sit in the front, so does he.” The pastor initially looked shocked and then turned towards the front and sat Nathan next to me on the altar.

“Thanks a lot,” Nathan whispered as the ceremony began.

When three o’clock registered on my watch, I showed him the time, hoping for an exit but he only cast his gaze downward and sighed. “We must stay to the end. People will notice our departure if we go now.”

Expecting such an answer I only smiled, “Welcome to my world, friend.”

*

The ceremony ended at 6 PM and we started our walk home.

“I’m never going to a wedding with you again,” Nathan teased.

“It wasn’t so bad. Last year, the Catholic wedding ran a full 12 hours without food or drink. That was rough,” I offered as we crossed paths with the head teacher of our school. “Lokapolon, yoga. Head teacher, hello.”

“Namesake! You returned from Nairobi. Glad to see you, but I also see you did not cut your hair while on holiday. I am disappointed. You look more like a woman.”

I shook my head, “No, I actually cut my hair today.”

“No, you did not. It looks the same.”

My English became more rapid as I lost patience. “Trust me, I cut my hair with a scissors. I was there. I know. You don’t see many muzungu people so you wouldn’t notice unless I scalped myself,” I excused his dismissive remark.

“No, you’re hair is the same.”

“Okay. Whatever. Awanyunos. Good bye.” Sometimes it isn’t worth it to fight, especially when you’re having a good hair day.

(schizo)Frenic Future:
(all options subject to change, to be redundant)

a) Columbia Teacher’s College Peace Corps Fellows Program: Teaching in NYC public school during daylight, attending esteemed graduate program post-dusk.

b) Peace Corps China: Extending my PC contract to teach English at university level in a Western Province (city) for 2 years while learning Mandarin and promoting American goodwill.

c) Unemployed living on your couch: No explanation needed.