One Saturday afternoon, I passed by the barber and found a stranger loafing around. I took one glance at him and went my way. Three hairy visits later, and no barber in sight, I was compelled to ask the loafer why my barber was. “Alienda,” he said.
I decided to entrust this new chap with my head and regretted it the moment he started doing his thing. While my runaway barber was a top-notch pro who barely spoke and cleared the operation in 10 minutes flat, this new clown kept talking till I got a headache.
He fed me a long yarn about the big heads he had had the privilege of shaving, among them Raila Odinga’s and a coterie of senior Luo politicians’ mango heads.
Journalists are lots like cops and in this trade, you learn to sniff bullsh*t from a mile away. But what got to me was what he was doing with my head.
He twisted my neck like a hangman. He tortured my scalp the way a butcher skins a zebu! By the time I walked out, I was traumatised. I never went back.
My next barber turned out to be a woman, who wasn’t wearing a bra. Don’t ask silly questions, like how I knew that. I might have one good eye only, but it sure as hell can tell dangling knockers when it sees them!
Thing is, this new barber wasn’t bad. But somewhere along the line, I formed the impression that there was something untoward about the manner her hands kept touching-touching me. But because I believe firmly that the girl-child should be supported, I returned for three more haircuts. On all three occasions, I can confirm authoritatively that her chest gear was not fastened with a seat belt!
I had become accustomed to that and no longer found it a bother, except that on this occasion, it became clear to me that she was purposefully dangling and rubbing those gadgets on my back. I fled, never to return.
My instincts were correct. When I bumped into her in a pub a year later, she tottered drunkenly towards me, offered an unsolicited hug and slurred, “Nilihama huko. Sasa niko hapa. Si ukuje nikushike vile nilikuwa ninakushikanga? Tuko pia na massage!”
Of course I did not take up the offer. Personally, I think massage is a load of rubbish. I would be crazy to have a stranger kneading my buttocks like unga ya chapati for Sh2,000! That’s a waste of beer cash.
Anyway, I did find a great barber. Taciturn, professional and fast. Unfortunately, he has an assistant whose colourful innerwear is always peeping through the top of her jeans. I also laughed my head off when she offered to give me a face scrub. But I was terribly uncomfortable with the way she was kneading my head. Eish!
“No massage please. Just wash my head, nothing more, lest the demons in my head pop out and frighten you to death!” I warned. She laughed, missing the point that I took exception to being sexually assaulted in broad daylight.
Ooh, and I ordered her to leave my dandruff alone. I am a keen conservationist!
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