White People Hair

There’s something about getting your hair cut in a foreign country that I just can’t put my finger on.  That’s because the slightest thought of getting my hair cut in a foreign country causes my body to start violently convulsing, and it’s really just difficult to point something out when your finger won’t stay still.   Of course, what I’m trying to say here is that when it comes time to get my haircut here, I do just about everything I can to delay the inevitable for as long as possible.  In the nearly ten months since I’ve been here, I’ve gotten my haircut 5 times.  Four times by American’s, and one time by an experienced, and Mozambican familiar with the intricacies of white-people-hair (and apparently there are intricacies).

The first time my friend Kevin, another PCT at the time, did it.  And he was good.  He did it on the front porch of my host family’s shack.  The second time Rafael, another friend and PCV from a nearby site took a turn using a shoddy set of shears that Chris, the volunteer who lived in my house before me had purchased at Montepuez’s infamous “Chinese Loja,” the one stop shop for all things quality (…he said sarcastically).  It didn’t actually turn out that bad, though my thick hair kept jamming the shears and the machine itself broke two or three times along the way.  One time, it stopped mid-cut and demanding us to open it up and perform some open-heart-of-the-machine surgery.  The third time was in Angoche, where Kevin (same Kevin actually), Casey and I all ventured into the bairro’s of the hosting city to seek out someone who could clean us up.  That he did, and I think I already mentioned in the post about my trip that he cleaned-up Casey particularly well practically leaving him bald.  Anyway, this guy had cut white people hair before, so it wasn’t so new to him.  Still terrifying, but not change-your-pants inducing terror.  Foreign country haircut experience number four occurred in Mireya and Anna’s Quintal, where I contracted Elizabeth, yet another volunteer from a neighboring site, to do the dirty on my head.  In this case, the dirty being bushwhack through my dusty, gross and oiley hair, and then make something out of it.  Number five shouldn’t really count, but I’m throwing it in there anyway.  My neck was itching me one day while visiting the girls house, so I handed Mireya a pair of scissors and asked her to fix the problem.  A few snips later and that was all she wrote.  Hair cut number six happened today.

I returned home from a failed meeting, but otherwise successful garlic restock in the city to the realization that I had most of the afternoon free.  There are a number of things that I needed to do, but like any sane person having been given the gift of time, I instead decided to waste it doing things that were much less important.  So, I went to get my haircut.

My friend Genito, a 10 or 11 year old who sometimes comes to my house to break stuff and other times just to draw, set out in search of a guy.  I’d call him a barber, but they don’t really exist in the professional sense here.  A barber in this country is anyone who has a set of clippers (most likely the same shitty pair I had in my house, and purchased from the Chinese Loja) and a bamboo hut blasting music from gigantic, cheaply-made speakers (probably also purchased at the Chinese Loja…I told you they have everything).

To find our guy, we walked around the bairro making a few friends along the way as we asked for directions.  Eventually, a small army of pre-teen boys and I arrived at a small hut down the street from my friend Lucas’ house.  Inside the three foot by four foot hut was a man sitting and reading a newspaper in front of two speakers that were blasting music loud enough that it was causing the corners of the paper he was holding to dance to the beat.  I tapped him on the shoulder, and thus began my plunge into the world of back-alley barbers.

Our conversation went kinda like this:
Me:  “Hey man, I need to cut my hair, can you do it?”
Him:  “Hold on, let me turn down this music…**screws with about seven of the 15 knobs on the speaker until it finally decreased the volume**…What did you say?”
Me:  “I need a haircut, do you know how to cut white people hair?
Him:  “Meh, no, not really.  I’ve never done it before, but no worries, right?  Hair is hair.”
Me:  “Yeah, sure, whatever, I have no idea.  All I know is that the last time a Mozambican cut my hair, he sold what he cut off to some kids who wanted to make fake beards.”
Him:  “Yeah, I’m probably gonna do that too. Cutting hair doesn’t really make me all that much money, the real cash crop is in the extension business.”
Me:  “Oh, they’re fake? I had no idea.  I thought all those smooth, technicolored streaks I’ve been seeing in peoples hair were naturally occurring.”
Him:  “Ha!  You are just too much whitey.”
Me:  “Dude, I’m kidding.  Most of that crap is made from horse tails.”
Him:  “Negative amigo, we don’t have horses here.”
Me:  “China?”
Him:  “China. Wait, what are we talking about?”
Me:  “Hair…speaking of which, can you cut mine.”
Him:  “Yeah, but I’ve never done it for a white person before.”
Me:  “Don’t worry, we’re in this together buddy.  Do you have a number 3 clip?”
Him:  “Yeah, it’s here somewhere.  What a three look like?  Oh well, don’t worry, I think this is it.  Ok, let me go ahead and lube up this rusty set of shears I have.  By the way, who are all these kids?”
***10 agonizing minutes or jammed clippers and hair-pulling pain later I’m looking spick and span.***
Me:  “Hey wow, that’s not half bad.  And I’m not even bleeding!”
Him:  “It’s all in the wrist, bro.”
Me:  “Yeah, I guess so.  I really have no idea; haircuts have never been my thing.”
Him:  “Really?  Wow, that’s a shame.  Haircuts are great.  In fact I demand you come back soon.”
Me:  “Well, hair needs to be cut, that’s why it’s there, right?
Him:  “Actually, I believe that real reason we’ve evolved to have hair on our heads is threefold: for warmth, the reelecting of harmful UV rays, and for protection against impact.”
Me:  “Ugh…come again?”
Him:  “Darwin mothafukah, what up?!”
Me:  “Well, thanks for that, ugh, lesson?  And here’s your money.  I’m assuming you’re gonna overcharge me anyway, so here’s 20 mets.”
Him:  “Well that makes this a whole lot less awkward. Thanks for understanding!  Sorry that you’re different and have a great day!”

Haircuts.  Now you see what I mean?

My first Ide

And all of a sudden, it feels like my foreign allure as a Peace Corps Volunteer has earned me admission into the outskirts of a pretty sweet social circle.  I spent the afternoon brushing shoulders with some of the city’s higher-ups while we inhaled plate after plate of savory, fall-off-the-gigantic-bone meat dishes, fries, rice, salad, and all the shamosas you could ever want.

We were celebrating Ide, an important day that marks the end of Ramadan and the month-long fast endured by Muslims.  Faruk, a well-off and festive Mozambican I met after his boss gave Vikram, Anna and I a boleia to Macomia once, invited me, Anna, and Mireya over to his house to celebrate with some of the town’s elite.  A couple university Professors, the Municipal Judge, the Commander of the local Army Base, a few prominent Store Owners and Delacaya, a chiquey Mozambican who works at the Mcel Telephone Store and has a passion for club dancing, we all in attendance.  Of course, I had no idea who any of these people were (with the exception of the cell phone guy, who I’d met a few times before).  But when the Scotch started following, that all changed.

We sat down to eat in the early afternoon and stayed seated as we went through the first course, indulging in just a few of the aforementioned delicacies.  And then we drank some Scotch.

The second round of food was served buffet style and was heavy on the meat.  Following Mireya’s bold lead, I dove right in, building a mountain of food on my plate until I got to a point where the slope of the pile was so steep that if I’d added anything else, it wouldn’t have fallen off.  A pleasant change of pace from my own under-flavored cooking, it took me a little under 3 minutes and 30 seconds to show that stack of food who it’s daddy was.  And then we drank some more Scotch.

As it turned out, there was more reason to celebrate than just the end of Ramandan.  Faruk’s son had a birthday, and that meant there was cake.  In the spirit of my sister, I managed to find some room on the upper shelf in my stomach for dessert, in all its chocolaty goodness.  And then we drank some more Scotch.

As the sun began to set, so too did our eyelids.  We excused ourselves and said our thank you’s and goodbyes.  A job well done.  Between the amount of food I’d eaten and scotch I took down, I figured I’d made my sisters and grandpa pretty.  I like this Ide thing.  I can’t wait for it to come again next year!