The Day I Became an Adult

There seemed to be a peculiar aroma of fate wafting through the lowlands of the Savannah today. At daybreak, I knew not the outcome of the day. Yet fate has a way of carrying about its business without much heed to public opinion. And as was my fate from the beginning, I would cash in the day an adult.
Perhaps some thought my day already had come. There are all sorts of circumstances in which we measure the term. The U.S. Government handed me my certificate on my 18th birthday. On that day, I was on the football field "chucking and ducking" the pigskin. Any opposing linebacker could attest the horror in my eyes rang true as cowardliness, not a trait reserved for any adult.
Out East, Wall Street brokers rely on monetary figures. Bank your first million near Battery Park and you can start thinking about calling yourself a self-respecting adult.
A little West, those tough old dudes in Wyoming gauge the term by how many bucks you've got mounted on the wall. Those tweedy bumpkins don't assume a thing if a 12-pointer stares dumbly over the fireplace.
But I didn’t enter adulthood on any of these grounds. Neither did I enter adulthood by losing a loved one in some horrible tragedy, going to war, or misplacing anything beginning with the letter v.
Nope. I entered adulthood today, quite unexpectedly. Let’s see if I can present some of the details.

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The day began at 3:45 a.m., an odd hour to begin the day, yet it was our first day officially teaching at the school in Ogaro. I ate my oats, reviewed some notes, and thought what it meant to be a teacher. I showered and dressed.
Something about my apparel filled me with a grand sense of satisfaction. My dress shirt of choice, custom-made pants (coming in at a slim four American dollars), and
Chacos filled my head with cozy “good volunteer” sentiments.
“Look at me!” I said to my reflection. “I’m a teacher. What a day!”

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As I stood in front of the class, the lazy eyes and uninterested faces were, admittedly, all too familiar. But alas! My better half and I delivered a riveting (if not riveting, presentable) lecture on the decomposition rates of different materials, demonstrating that throwing a mango peel and a glass bottle into a field are not the same thing. Who knows, maybe a few kids even learned a thing or two.

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Fresh off the euphoria of a successful first class, I was riding home with Sakundja, a local buddy of thirteen years. He began popping a few wheelies with his old derelict of a bike. Then, with an audacity befitting of his age, he poked that I couldn’t pull one off myself.
In younger days, many lazy summer evenings were spent on Jefferson Drive lifting my front tire in the air for a spin. Reasonably, I was a good deal taken aback by such a claim. Instinct took hold and my eyes began scanning upcoming divots where I could successfully launch myself. I saw myself sailing across the sultry Sahelian sun, like that fabulous silhouetted image of E.T.
“I can do it!” I bellowed with one hand in the air, prematurely claiming a "mission accomplished."
What ensued was quite different. How much space was in between my front tire and the ground is unclear, although it’s safe to say I missed my mark. Upon landing, my quick-release tire “quickly released”, the impact jarring my tire completely from its hold. The tire jetted back towards the body of the bike, instantly wedging itself between my left pedal and front frame. This, in turn, caused my front dropouts, where my front tire connects to the frame, to plant firmly into the dirt. Had my bike been in a gymnastics meet, a perfect ten would have been awarded.
When the dust cleared, I rejoiced, in a sort of bittersweet fashion, that I was alive, all appendages intact.

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Now I’m not sure about this business of adulthood. Who’s an adult and who’s not, it’s a tricky game. Perhaps it’s a silly term that don’t mean nottin’. If we can conclude the term does have a little validity though, then I am one.
What is an adult, but one (a teacher nonetheless) who tries to do what was once done in younger days with ease, but is no longer able to do? Having a thirteen year-old there to witness the spectacle just added injury to insult.

In the Barber's Chair

Like most lessons in life, I chanced upon learning about personal space, or lack thereof, here in Togo the hard way. Perhaps more than most, I have a tendency to become claustrophobic. Behemoth grocers always do it to me. Large concentrations of youngsters have the same effect. I usually steer clear of the discotheques. But never had I had trouble at the barber before…
The scene was set back in my training site, Agou-Nygbo, a few days before swearing in as a volunteer. My host mom Essé requested that I should have my ears lowered on such a momentous occasion. A reasonable request, I thought, given the grandeur of the event. In a peculiar sort of way, I acquiesced to appease my mother, the real one, that is. Biological or not, it’s official: mothers worldwide want their kids to get a trim before any public engagement.
The cut started off normal enough. Me, seated with a towel explaining how best to downplay my widows peak cascading down my forehead while Essé cheerfully snipped away and made small talk.
Then two apparitions came forth, seemingly stirring themselves from the woodworks. It was Cuckou and Ismael, two teenage lads in our compound. I was familiar with their presence. In this particular instance however, they seemed phantoms. From whence they came, I know not. I had no sooner realized their presence than they each produced a pair of clippers from their pockets and joined the party.
There was little communication between the three. In fact, they were issuing three different cuts. The swiftness of these snippets would have made even the pallid Mr. Scissorhands blush, (though on grounds of rapidity alone, not craftsmanship). One of the boys had a habit of catching my scalp as he snipped, most notably the tender tissue where ear meets head.
Now I understand that, contrary to public thought, hair stylists, cutters, dyers, and permers should not be held to a higher standard than the rest of us. Difficult as it may be to fathom, those in the hair industry are imperfect beings, subject to the same blunders and errors that plague the rest of mankind.
Has there ever been a cashier, who not once, at the end of the day didn’t realize the books don’t match up? Has a baseball player ever batted 1.000? Has a Peace Corps Volunteer, in their weakest of moments, secretly wished to throw in the towel and go home? Then neither should the stylist be barred from a few miss-cuts now and then.
With this being said, one has to draw the line somewhere. Personally, I abide by the three strikes on the head and you’re out rule. Bring in the experienced reliever. One who can retake control of the cut and quiet the crowd. Unfortunately, my bullpen was already exhausted, leaving me few possibilities.
My first plea rested on the boy repeatedly gauging my scalp. I was set back down and told that he would lend more care in his calculations, (he did not). My second claim supposed that my sure-handed wife knew the finer intricacies of my hair. Again, to no prevail.
At this point, my self-control tank was running on fumes, and I was sure at any second, I would leap forth, swinging my arms wildly to free myself. The towel began feeling like a straightjacket. That awful confinement gripped my whole being. I needed to breathe!
Finally, I asked for a mirror. At first glance came sentiments of horror and hilarity. My right side had three straight lines extending back, a design trademarked by Vanilla Ice. Patches of long hair graced the top of my head. My poor widow’s peak stuck out like a sore thumb. So what was I to do?
“I’ll take it! It’s perfect,” I declared, adoringly petting my head. “Couldn’t have done it better myself. Thanks so much!” And with that, I left the premises before any protests could be raised.
In the end, I kept my haircut. After a few looks, I wasn’t sure if my cut was befitting of some homeless squatter or if the cut was so hip, so groundbreaking that it was truly ahead of its time.
I kept the cut for other reasons as well. It was an oath to myself to reconcile the fact that at times, things are just out of my control. Personal space is invaded here at times, no matter what you do. This past story certainly was the most dramatic instance, but it is an issue that we deal with every day, both on a personal level and as a couple.
And just to let you know, a friend recommended an upscale barber to me in our regional capital. Forty cents a cut, just like the good ol’ days.