I don’t know how it happened. Started as a joke because of this class I mentioned here. See when you are screen talent they want you to look good for the camera, the want your caricature. And that is what you get out of make-up. A shitty face, like a blonde. I declined the ‘face painting’; even when I was a kid I did not do it. And toys too, my parents believed they lowered my moral intellect, transforming me in to something with an IQ of an oyster. When the kids my age where busy jumping in the fake castles and getting their faces dirty. I was busy reading anything readable. I remember reading stuff to do with Simon Makonde and other interesting stories from some old books I picked at my grandma’s. When I was not reading or writing a composition for my mum to mark my dad was busy showing me the innards of the T.V or radio or blowing up my latest mini piano. I had lots of them. I still play and am a big fan of Cold play’s Chris Martin. After declining the make-up, there was something else I had to give a try. Hair dressing. That is where my woes started.
So I found my sorry ass seated at the corridors of Ashley beauty salon, sorry school. My first observation was that they all had blue jeans or black skirts and pink shirts. Then it struck me, they were actually in uniform. What the fuck? Is it high school? It is a tertiary institution for chrissake with people past the marriageable age (some lil exaggeration did no harm), swaying their hips up and down the corridors to and from classes. Then the dudes had the blue jeans and the same shirts (kinda gay). What struck me about them is that many of them these tiny, sorry imitations of dreadlocks on their heads making the heads seem like they were some sort of mini pine apple plantation. Think delmonte and get the picture. Dudes, not everybody looks good in dreadlocks especially if you have an head shape of a rugby ball.
My hair was to be made for free and i was not excited about it because it was not shaving but they were going to make it curly and ‘cool’. I teamed up with this chick called Isabel, or something of the sort. She asked me some crazy questions about my hair which made me recall the one’s those census guys were asking. Like if I have a boat yet I live in a flat. She had the audacity to ask me if i had ever had a weave or a wig on my hair. I deduced she had an IQ slightly larger than a mashed potato. I told her I am a man stop embarrassing my hair in the presence of my body when it can peek with the mirror in front. She thought that was funny and I lowered her IQ once again.
The great torment started with the application of a relaxing chemical on my head. It is supposed to fry your head in a slow motion till it reaches your brains. Then it will spread quickly like a virus. It is that sick and sadist. Aiming for your brain. Of course I did not know all this before. Experience is the best teacher. She kept asking if it hurts but all i felt was a cold slimy gel on my head. A few minutes later, small needles started stinging my head. Really painful. Then a burning sensation all over my scalp. It was something i have never felt before. I told her to stop but she was reluctant, talking about the required time. I said to hell with the required time; just get that devil out of my head, now! She led me to a sink on which i laid my head and she washed it slowly. That did not feel bad at all, considering her boobs were making constant contact with my face or my arms at any given time. Then it was over. She dried my hair and tied it ‘mkorino-like’. (Do they have an English name?) She led me to a drier. That big menacing furnace. The only memories I have of it is when I used to accompany my mum to hair-dresser when I was a kid. Then I would sit patiently waiting for her while reading those highly entertaining Moses stories. Since then I have had a mad respect for it. Here I was facing it. Running away would render me a coward. Getting it over my head would somehow be a gay thing, and it would definitely fry my brain. That I was sure of. At last I decided to fry them. At an enormous cost. That was last week and my brain went on a French-leave. I have not been able to write anything until now. Some editor called me in the morning wondering why I was taking so long for a 450 word piece.
I do know one thing I will stick to shaving off my hair. At least my brains won’t be fried and I will not be made to feel gay.
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