The guy in the chair

In just about every way imaginable, my hair is as far as it can get from that of a Ugandan. Blonde v. Black. Fine v. Coarse. Straight v. Curly. You get the point.

So last week when I came to grips with the fact that my lengthening hair was threatening the illusion of "professionalism" I work so hard to cultivate (see photo of a suited Shane; very professional), I decided it was time for my first haircut in Africa. Fortunately, Freddie’s Parlour, the salon on the ground floor of my apartment complex, looked inviting. A group of barbers were always sitting on a bench outside seeming to be likeable fellows, and I had even struck up a friendship with one of the women who worked there after she had directed me to a nearby ATM my first day in Kampala. I was worried that cutting muzungu hair might be a challenge for a Ugandan barber, but my familiarity with the place and its apparent general good nature put those fears to rest. This would be easy.

You know that scene in every Western movie where some out-of-towner rolls into the saloon, the guy on the piano stops playing, the bartender stops wiping down the bar, and everyone looks up from their drink or card game? I was the out-of-towner. I actually think the radio stopped working for a few seconds when I entered Freddie's Parlour.

I told the woman behind the counter I needed a haircut and she quickly led me to a chair; twenty sets of eyes followed me. Women getting their nails done, men getting shaves, even the other barbers—all of them watched me sit. When the barber who had drawn the Unlucky Number headed toward me, his barber friends started laughing at him and making, what I can only imagine were hysterical jokes in Lugandan, their native tongue. This did not stop.

After he finished trimming the sides with electric clippers, I asked if he had scissors for the top and indicated the length I wanted cut with my thumb and forefinger. About a quarter of an inch. I’m not sure where he got them, but he left the room for a full minute before returning with scissors. He started cutting. I closed my eyes.

You know that scene in every High School movie where the nerd walks down the hall and all the jocks make fun of him and throw stuff at him from their lockers, but the nerd doesn’t turn around? That was me. I just kept walking down the proverbial hallway, eyes closed, trying to ignore the snickering.

When Unlucky Number tapped me on the shoulder, I opened my eyes to see how it had gone. You see the picture of me holding the pineapple? Look at the pineapple. I don’t know what you call the stuff coming out of the top of it, but that’s a close approximation to what my hair looked like.

As politely as I could, I told Unlucky that this would not do. (Perhaps I should mention here that although English is widely spoken in Uganda, much is lost in translation between American-English and Ugandan-English.)

“Maybe cut more here. Just make same length all over. Understand?” He nodded.

Close eyes. Ignore the snickers. Walk down the hallway.

A few more minutes brought a second tap on the shoulder. Eyes open.

Take a look at the pineapple again. Now imagine if you cut it in half vertically. The stuff that would be left sprouting from the top, that was my hair.

“Maybe just a bit more here,” I said. I pointed at the pineapple sprouts.

No more reason to close the eyes. The snickering was now unabashed laughter.

Snip, snip. Cut, cut. Unlucky, who was now getting understandably frustrated with me, just raised his eyebrows at me asking, Is this good enough?

Sorry, but no. I have to be in court every day until this grows out. You’re going to need to fix my head.

You know that scene in every War movie where young men are going off to boot camp, and they get in the barber assembly line for the ritualistic buzz cut. Take a look at the picture of me with the pineapple again, but look at my head this time. Yeah, I was the guy in the chair.