Day 28 Zimbabwe Haircut

Although my hair continues to grey (prematurely I say!) it is thick and grows weedlike, rapidly becoming unruly and curly. In the tropics it feels like I'm wearing a dead angora goat on my head. So I tried to get it cut in Bali, but by the time I got around to it it was Galungan, the major Balinese Hindu festival and all the barbers were closed. Now we're about to head deep into the African bush and I was beginning to feel desperate, so I headed into town yesterday.

The town of Victoria Falls is a ramshackle  accumulation of tour offices and local businesses. Among the latter was a dark hole in the wall called Tyress Hair Salon And Health Spa. I stepped inside, was welcomed and was motioned to sit against the wall and wait. Two men were busy shaving the heads of their customers. They glanced nervously back and forth at each other and at me. There were no scissors in sight, only electric clippers. The posters and photos on the walls all featured handsome black men with closely shaved heads, one advertising the possibility of having a Bart Simpson silhouette carved in. It was around this time that I began wondering whether this was a good idea.

Eventually the younger of the two barbers couldn't stall any longer and invited me to his chair. His name was Neo. To my relief he asked me whether I preferred clippers or scissors. He rummaged about,  produced a pair and began to consider my hair with a mixture of anxiety and skepticism. Evidently having reached a decision he dowsed it with an astringent smelling liquid that ran down my forehead into my eyes. I smiled. Neo smiled. Then the cutting began. These scissors had apparently been last sharpened when this country was still called Rhodesia. Consequently Neo had to resort to more of a sawing and yanking technique with the blades open to a narrow v, interspersed with episodic redowsing. I tried to make conversation with him, but between the noise of clippers in the next chair and my thick Canadian accent (English is an official language in Zimbabwe and everyone speaks it) he had trouble understanding me. Each time I said something he would stop cutting and would pop his head around to face me and say "Hello?" I eventually gave up and Neo eventually began to relax, engaging in lively conversation with the young women that had gathered around. It was all in Ndebele but occasionally Neo would insert the phrase "I am living dangerously!" in English and laugh.

Ultimately my hair got cut to the perfect length and both Neo and I got stories, albeit probably different ones.

The photo is of truly living dangerously: an employee going out to... check? maintain? repair? the bungee jumping cables over the Zambezi Gorge.