Haircut

Several of my friends had asked me, “What are you going to do about your hair when you’re in Africa?” To be honest, I wasn’t really sure what I was going to do. There were several options: Grow it out and wear it in a bun, like a stereotypical missionary wife is supposed to do. Or, cut it myself, which I’ve never done and really don’t want to try. Or, let David cut it. I wont’ even go there. Sue Calder lives on the farm next to the mission, and she let it slip that she has cut hair for some, so that was a possibility. Sue also told me that there was a place in Lusaka that cut makua (white person) hair. With no diesel for sale, the long drive to Lusaka didn’t seem too wise.

Then I heard through the grapevine that Kathi Merritt had used a place in Livingstone. My hair had gotten shaggy, and to make matters worse my curling iron was broken. I did have some hair curlers, but they were locked away in storage somewhere. Desperate times require desperate acts. David and I went to Livingstone to take some people to the airport, so I decided to give the Livingstone place a try.

The salon was unmarked from the street, but I’d heard that you went up the steps by the Pub and Grill and the salon would be on the second floor. David came along for moral support. We climbed a dark stairway and found the salon, a nice-looking establishment at the top. A quick look around showed me there were no other makuas, so I timidly asked the lady at the desk, “Do you cut hair like mine?” She nodded, so I asked if I needed an appointment. “No, we can take you right now,” she replied.

That was a little sudden for me! After all, would they know how to cut my baby fine, wavy tresses? Too late! The lady at the desk called to one of the beauty operators and the next thing I knew I was seated in a swivel chair. The one who was to cut my hair disappeared for a few minutes. David had found a couch to sit on to watch the fun. I looked at him wild-eyed and mouthed the words, “Let’s get out of here!” but he just grinned and shook his head. Too late again!

My unsmiling operator returned and without a word began spraying my hair with water and vigorously (ouch!) massaging the water in to get my hair all wet. Then the scissors appeared. Finally she spoke, “What do you want?”

“Just one centimeter trimmed off,” I said, and held my fingers apart to show just a tiny space. Silently she grabbed her scissors and started to work. She slowly and methodically did her cutting, and from what I could tell, she was doing it just like my hairdresser in Austin used to do. I noticed with a little start that the hair falling on my shoulders was more like an inch long than a centimeter. Oh well, I reasoned, my hair grows fast anyway. She didn’t say a word as she worked, and I couldn’t come up with any small talk to offer.

She finally put down the scissors, and then seemed a little unsure of what to do next. She found a blow dryer and aimed it at my hair as she pulled the top hair up and moved it around. Then she combed it back off my face and curled it under my ears a bit. Finally she stepped back and asked me if it was okay. “It’s fine,” I said. “Where do I pay?” She pointed to the lady at the reception desk.

Now I began to worry how much this was going to cost me. After all, the salon was very nicely furnished and had several operators. What if this was an expensive place and I didn’t have enough kwacha? I was pretty sure they wouldn’t take my Visa card or my Austin Credit Union check. “How much?” I asked, with fear and trepidation. “10,000 kwacha,” came the reply. Whew! I had plenty for the payment and the tip.

David and I agree that I got a good haircut. It’s not exactly like what I got in the US, but it’s close enough.

And the 10,000 kwacha price? That’s little over two dollars.