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.