BARBERSHOP

My barbers always think I betray them by going to other barbers. That’s partly true, since I never really had one barber, save my friend Fidelis who got into the business and got really good at it. And that happens only when I’m around his place.

That aside, I visit a barbershop an average of once a year (twice, on good years), thanks to my hair whose growth rate would make a snail feel like The Flash. When I go, it’s one of three things;

• I rarely remember the last one I went to,
• I simply don’t want to go back because they ruined my hairline (more than it already is ruined) the last time, or…
• I’ve changed location and can’t access the last place.

So when I return to a barber I’ve cut my hair with before, they think I’ve betrayed them.

On this particular day, this “gentleman ” reminded me one of the other reasons I don’t like going to barbershops. He started a conversation.

Now, around my friends, I’m a blabbermouth, but around strangers, I’m socially awkward and can only exchange formal sentences; business only, and we go our separate ways.

“Boy, you dey live for this area?” he asked.

“Yeah. Anything?”

“I never see your face for here before. You dey go barb for another side?”

Holy Lord! Not today? I was in no mood for chit chat, so I didn’t respond.

“Everybody know me for this area naa. If you don come this salon, you suppose know me. You no know me?”

I replied icily, “No.” But that didn’t discourage him from continuing. He started sterilising his clipper, as I tried to decide what hairstyle to go for. Did it really matter? He’d ruin it anyway. They always do.

“Boy you dey travel?”

Holy hell! I wasn’t going to catch a break.

“Yeah.” “When?” he asked again.

“I never know.” I did know; I was to travel that day. At this point, he was done sterilising, and I drew an imaginary line around my head with my fingers, indicating I wanted a round-cut afro, or whatever it was called. He understood.

Clint — I didn’t get his real name, but I will call him this so I don’t have to keep saying “The barber” — proceeded to tell me how he was “hustling”. Apparently, that’s what they’re calling it these days. He complained about how he’d been “pressing" and “client never show love.”

Clint was mad at his close friend who recently “picked” would neither give him update, nor tell him anything besides “na grace.”

I kept muttering “Ha! Nawa oo,” “mad, mad, mad!” and even completing his sentences at intervals, all the while praying he didn’t notice my disinterest and ruin my hair intentionally — it seemed to be taking good shape thus far.

Much of the rest of the (one-sided) conversation was him talking about people owing him money and how they tried to run with it. At some point, he mentioned that the cost of a haircut was now ₦1000, thinking I’d take the bait. I smiled and kept monitoring the state of my hair.

Clint’s next attempt was him laughing at another guy in the shop for being a virgin. He turned to me and said, “You na boss naa. Shey you don straff?”

I smiled again.

“Ah, you never straff? You dey miss oo.” He was on my hairline now, so I was trying to remain focused.

“Taaa! You wey I dey see everyday dey carry woman. This one na oga!”

Frankly, I was tired, so I fizzled out and drowned in my own thoughts. The barbershop was always a place of relief for men. They talked about all the things men traditionally loved; football, drinks, business, and most importantly, booty! They talked about depression and hardships. Friendships were formed and quarrels were settled there. Like a bar, but the only alcohol here was used to sterilise equipment.

At the end of the session, you would leave with a good carve and a light heart. I wondered if I’d ever fit in such conversations. Or maybe it was a good thing I didn’t.

Who knows? Time will tell.

He signalled to my jaw, meaning he wanted to shave my beard/moustache and was seeking permission. I looked at the scanty shrubs there that gave me a bit of bragging right and something to pull, albeit lightly, when in deep thought. I wasn’t ready to lose it, so I shook my head.

When I all was done and the traditional spirit spray had come and gone with its little sting, I pulled a ₦1000 note from my pocket and gave it to Clint.

“Boss, see as your hair fine. You go leave am for me?”

The hair did indeed come out well — better than I’d thought it would, in any case. However, we were looking at the last money I had to my name in the world. I was not going to leave it. I spoke my first real words since I walked into the salon.

“Oga, you do well, but na who hold bar dey show love. No vex, next time.”

Considering my whore-like barber habits, there would probably not be a next time. He didn’t know that, so he smiled and gave me back my change. I left the barbershop with a good carve, but my heart remained unchanged.

This was my excuse for a first medium post in a while. I hope it was worth it. What are your salon experiences? Care to share?