Every second Wednesday is supply day and we head off to Fort Portal to pick up fresh bananas, eggs, toilet paper and meat. On the journey here, I remember thinking how small and ghost-townish Fort Portal was. When we returned today, it felt like a bustling metropolis. There were people everywhere, and shops and food and, like, ice-cream and chocolate and biscuits and a hotel where I had a STEAK which seemed, at the time, like the best thing that had ever happened to me. I’m quite sad that I won’t be able to renew my acquaintance with steak for another two weeks, but it will be worth the wait.
My hair was getting a bit too long for the jungle and, on top of the fact that I was becoming stuck on every low-hanging branch, it took about half an hour to wash in the trickling river-water shower. I had initially decided to get it shaved but, upon entering the “salon”, I got cold feet and asked for it “a bit shorter”. The hairdresser nodded wisely and began hacking at my head with a razor, brushing it over the top of my hair and occasionally slipping and removing large chunks. I gazed on in impotent horror as huge tufts fell away from the scarecrow in the mirror. I suggested scissors, so he pulled some out and cut my fringe in a straight line. Duncan, the scarecrow-monk, felt himself dying inside. A giggly woman who’d been standing outside came in and wrestled the scissors from the guy’s hand. She said “Don’t worry, it will be good, you’ll see!” and sliced off one of my sideburns. She chopped and plucked and brushed, and I closed my eyes in horror. After a while I peeked and regretted it straight away. “Your hair is very hard to cut!” my new stylist reproached me. I comforted myself with the thought that it might grow out. Sadly, on further inspection, it became all too obvious that the latter thought had been a delusion. Finally I couldn’t take it any more and screamed “JUST SHAVE IT OFF!”
More and more of my hair fell away, revealing a rather thuggish-looking fellow underneath. Normally I would have shrunk at the sight but, as an Eminem-esque wideboy arose from the ashes of my former coiffe, all I felt was relief. I might now look like someone who murdered grannies, but at least I looked like a member of the species. If there’s one haircut that African hairdressers do very well, it's the buzz cut and, while I do look like a “Polish prisoner of war”, as Alex so kindly put it, it actually quite suits me. I’m not saying I’m going to have my hair cut like this ever again ever, but I imagine I’d cut quite a dashing figure as I beat up a school kid behind the bike-sheds. After the haircut was finished, the male hairdresser appeared again and started beating me with a flannel. This was under the pretence of removing hair for my clothing but the strength with which he battered me was a shining example of undue force. Next came the hot, wet towel and my head and neck was systematically scalded. After this, a bottle of “Olive Oil” hairspray was produced along with a clear plastic container bearing the title “Ocean Spray Metholated Spirit”. The Olive Oil was sprayed on my hair and the bright purple metholated spirit dabbed all over my face. Spluttering, I played my £1.30 and left.
On returning to the camp, all the rangers ran around yelling “Who is this and where have you left Duncan”. What I’ve lost in hair, however, I’ve certainly gained in anecdotes.
God shave us! Hair has it all gone?
I am hoping that in future, Duncan, you will be a mite less censorious about the bowl cuts I bestowed upon you during your formative years. Perhaps you will even let me cut you hair again when you come home (if it ever grows back, that is)? I'm sure I could do the POW style very well.
ReplyDeleteAny chance of a photograph?
ReplyDeleteActually, Ma, just before I ordered it shaved, the woman had just started turning it into a bowl cut. This was the straw that broke the camels back.
ReplyDeleteLachlan: maybe when you're older dear.