BARBER & MAMAA

Finding a barber is like finding a wife. If we talk often, you must have heard me say that enough times. You must also have heard me complain about my barber, and if you were to take my whining out of context, it would sound acutely similar to complaints a man would have of his wife:

“Haniget!” “Kila saa nashinda nikimwambia na haskii!” “Kiburi na ujuaji!” “Alikuwa anaongea sana katikati ya kazi.” “Anafanya tu vitu zake.” “Attitude nayo?” “Alitoa nywele mob.” ...And so forth.

I haven’t had the best luck with barbers, especially after I left Kakamega two years ago. You’d think Nairobi would have the crème de la crème of WAHL handlers. I’m not saying there are none. But akin to the search for a life partner, there are many great potentials out there; however, it’s always a needle-in-a-haystack situation. There’s what you like, how you like it—and while all these potentials are great, only a handful know how to do you right.

I lost the barber of my life way back when I was in uni. Okay, he didn’t die—just so you’re not thinking this is a eulogy of some kind. I must have been in first year. Now that I was a fresh adult, I had the freedom to do as I pleased with my hair. This was unlike those school days when, even before your hair could grow 2 centimetres long, it was already opening day, and the password at the school gate was a bald head. Now that I had hair to rear, I had to know how to style it. Style it in a manner not just befitting to me, but also turning it into a personal brand.

It was then that I discovered I had a certain prerogative. This is one thing my ancestors through my father have done well to pass down to me. Of course, it would have been great if they were solemn about land grabbing when Kenya was still a ghost town—and I’d have more inheritance to flex. Nonetheless, this one has proven to serve a long-standing purpose in the face of all that look upon me. This inheritance, my brothers and sisters, is beards.

When you’re a man, you realize that the beard gang is like a members-only club. Money won’t buy your way in. When you’re a man with a clean chin, standing in the midst of bearded men makes you look like the small boy forcing his company among men. Like the man who walked to the party when everyone else came driving. When you’re a beardless man, you have to learn to live with the reality that women dream of men with beards. If they are asked to describe the physique of their ideal man, a beard is likely to be mentioned after height. In fact, if you’re a short and beardless man...

A bearded man is ideal for a woman because, to her, that’s an indication that he is likely to sire kids with good hair. A beardless man will never know how it feels to have a woman pet his chin with well done manicure like it’s a lion’s mane. He will never know that a woman can cry merely because you shaved your beard. Oh, I’ve seen them cry. Finally, on this open mic troll, women look at beardless men in the same way men look at women with no nyash.

Mic drop!

(Okay, seriously though, all that troll is pure banter. Don’t take it to heart. Beard or no beard, you’re still a man. Nyash or no nyash, that doesn’t make you any less of a woman. What makes you a real man is not defined by your body mass, but your ability to lead, be responsible, and be present. What makes you a good woman is your ability to nurture, be strong-willed, loving and intuitive.)

I happened to find a barber who had set up shop right next to Mama Watoto supermarket in Kakamega town. His shop was not fancy. His services were not expensive either. But since I was young, pre-rich, and standing on the brink of exploration, I had to start from somewhere. I had to start with someone. This person ended up being Lawrence.

Lawrence never said much. He had the occasional smile of approval whenever he didn’t find it necessary to respond in words. A simple man, dark and sturdy in stature like the Luhya man he was. Rhumba music was ever on the stereo. I have grown to believe that barbing goes well with Rhumba. Some Che! Che! Che! Che! Unapenda vitu vya che!

For some reason, Lawrence spoke my language—not Luhya. I know squat of that language. It was the language of calmness and composure. Humility and quietness. Observation and execution. Meticulous and demure. Style and class, at least in the manner of treatment. I would sit on that three-legged barber’s chair, wrapped in the barber cape, say little, and he would do his thing—and the results would be tremendous. The much I knew is that I wanted to emulate my dad’s hairstyle; box and fade. I forgave everyone who ever suggested that I should try put dreadlocks. I, however, will not and have not forgiven anyone who implied that they would be okay with me bald.

There’s this day youthfulness took the better part of me, and I decided to try the same hairstyle but borderline mohawk. My girl (or girl I was hitting on) at the time accompanied me to Lawrence’s. He asked, “Are you sure?” I said yes. After he was done, the girl said she liked it, I looked good, maybe like the bad boys she fancied. Lawrence? No comment. He was just a barber doing as desired. Shortly after, it was holiday season. I went home and my dad took one good look at me. That’s when I knew that I had taken a bite in the forbidden apple called the disappointing child.

“This is not how we shave! That’s not a hairstyle for people like us!”

Unlike Adam, I had the opportunity to spit it and gurgle mouthwash.

I must have visited Lawrence twice when he moved his shop further into the building. This time, I found him with an assistant. A short bald man who, to me, just looked like a rookie. Whenever I got there, I would rather wait in line for Lawrence even if his intern was shaving for free!

Then one time, I came in as usual and was met by Mr. Intern. “Lawrence?” “Hajakuja leo.”

No problem. I went and came back another day. Still no sign of Lawrence. By then, my moustache had grown so long that it was tickling my nose so annoyingly. I had to get serviced by the intern. I mean, a man has needs heh! But knowing that it was only for that day. But was it?

Mjango, Lawrence never returned. This intern seemed to have now taken over the business. I tried asking him, but he seemed just as clueless. The best info he gave was that he went back home to Mumias. I was this close to launching a search party because the heartbreak of losing a barber was warking as God knows what. I was disoriented and in denial. Sorrowing like an elephant after losing its kin. I had trust issues. I couldn’t believe I could ever find anyone who shaved me like Lawrence did. I thought I might as well just go bald. A rookie barber must be a muttonhead if he can’t shave bald well. So you can never be disappointed with a bald haircut. And that’s what I never wanted to experience—another disappointment like this.

Oh Lawrence! Where art thou!

After some time, I healed. Of course, I suffered in the hands of my rebound rookie barber before nirudi soko. Technically now, he became the devil I knew after Lawrence left. And that’s how rebounds come about—it’s always with the person who was closest to you when you were experiencing the heartbreak.

There’s a barbershop I had spotted in Mega Mall. I decided I was going to try it. No more barbershops hidden in alleys of buildings. Barbershops with three-legged chairs that would make great video vixens for the Anguka Nayo hit song. Barbershops where, as the barber takes a break to prepare to deliver the styling cut, he takes the opportunity to prepare hot water. As he delivers the cut, water is boiling furiously in a jug right behind his ass. Any devilish mistake would have him jerk and probably extend the cut further into your scalp. No more! No more would we leave the barbershop quickly to go and wash the head because with that jug water, all he would do is dip a towel in it and throw it on your face to save himself from burning. No more!

Now? I was going to graduate to the big leagues. Heartbreaks have a way of leveling up your worth. Moving on was imminent. I had sung:

“Niko over my ex And I’m feeling so fresh Niko huru me nataka kumeet somebody new. Nasema tonight, I wanna get freaky. Nasema tonight, nataka kumingle. Nasema tonight, nataka kuexchange number na mutu...”

To the letter.

As I sat in line at the Delight Barbershop, I peered through the handiwork of the workmen and women there. This shop had status. Peripheries upon peripheries. It even had a cashier. Oh, and a salon too. I looked for the coolest-looking barber and marked myself as next in his line. He had quite the beard, not a young millennial, but he had vibes like one, starting with his hairstyle: long spiky hair trimmed in a fade on the sides. There was a sense of style in his dressing too. He seemed to be quite the loud one, though. His ego was all over the place.

Sigh. Lawrence, look at what I’m having to deal with?

No matter how much you move on, there will always be a part of you that draws notes from your ex. You compare and contrast. You view the world through their lens. But you make peace.
I did as I sat in that cozy barber’s chair. Cushioned to the T. The cape was stylish. As he prepared his machines, I asked the kind of question that would ruin a first date: “Unajua kunyoa fade?”
He paused and resigned. His ego was pricked. He looked at me like, “Bro, what do you take me for?”
No further questions, your honor. Lest he decides to go berserk with my hair.

Despite the pride and occasional chattiness, he was cool and extremely meticulous, especially with the fade. Mjango, when he was done... wah! I looked in the mirror and nearly proposed to myself. My face was reborn. Beard lined up like a military parade. Hairline sharper than your ex’s words when she found out you moved on before her. Maybe he wanted to prove a point. It’s how he took his time. Since then, I started believing that a short barber session was not a thorough one. Hairstyles like mine don’t get done in quickies.

I got to learn that, like in relationships, you will have your first love. They will seem like the world to you because that’s the only world you know. They are perfect in your eyes because you don’t know any other version of perfect. But if you’re unlucky or lucky, depends on how you look at it – they won’t last forever. Your experience with love won’t stop there. And for most, that proves true. You will find yourself back in the streets, reeling from character development. You cry a river; you say you’re done with this shit. You swear to be a nun. Then soon enough, healing has had its course, sobriety kicks in, and you decide to give it another try.

Sometimes you don’t even go looking; you just encounter someone and realize that they make you feel some type of way. Without them knowing, when they start to kiss you, they kiss you in the places where your wounds once were. They hold you with a gentleness you didn’t think existed. When they look at you, they admire things you never even admired about yourself.

You start to appreciate that while you did have a past with someone, it doesn’t stop you from having a future, and a future with someone else. They could have been amazing people, but their kind of amazing is not the only version of amazing. And the fact that you loved their amazing doesn’t mean you can’t love someone else’s amazing. You appreciate the fact that while things didn’t work out between you, your experience with them set a standard for you. Should someone come around and offer less love, it will trigger the smoke detectors in your mind and heart because you know where there’s smoke, there definitely is fire. If they were toxic? Now you know how to escape delusion.

My time at Delight was delightful. Class and good service. But the time came when I started feeling like my barber was getting too assumptive. The spark that once was dwindled over time. There’s a danger in knowing someone too much. If you’re not careful, the inevitable will be nonchalance, ignorance and boredom. And because it’s the devil you know, you say you understand; it’s okay, no love lost. You blame it on differences in seasons – ah, it’s just the periodic valley of life. But is it?

The time came when I walked in there - if I'm to be dramatic, I'd say it sounded more like, “Maybe we should start seeing other people.”

I was like, wow Stanoe, just wow! Who then do you recommend for me?

“Leo,” he said. “I promise you he will do you good. What I know I learned from him.”

Sigh. Since then, anytime I went there, I just gravitated to Leo. I would still see Stanoe and have a chat from time to time. Leo reminded me so much of Lawrence. He’s calm, humble, and listens more than he speaks. When he speaks, it’s to give his sixth sense of things.

The time came, and life had to happen; I moved out of town. That’s just it with life; you think what you have will last to the happily ever after. It’s how our young adult lives are filled with such experiences: falling in love and thinking, this must be it. This one feels different. This one gets me. Unaware that we plan, and God laughs. I can see Him rolling on the floor, clutching His ribs because they can’t contain His thunderous laughter over how clueless and naive we are about life and His plans for us.

I came to Nairobi and felt like a lost dog in the world of barbers. I have been through many hands mjango. Some were great during the first encounter and whack in the second. Some said they understood what I wanted—sweet talkers, but that’s just all they were. Some were just okay, but I really just went there for the aftershave benefits. Men, soft, feminine hands are underrated.

Eventually, I had to settle because I was tired of the search. I couldn’t keep giving a piece of my heart and hair to every self-proclaiming barber. This one was Rwandan. He wasn’t bad; he wasn’t good either. I used to just say he’s the devil I know. He had learned what I wanted, and he did his best to bow to my will. Like someone who has the best of intentions, he could worship your feet if you asked them. But there’s just something about them that is insufficient in your eyes. The nights you go home complaining to yourself are more than the ones you praise yourself for making the right pick. Every encounter with them leaves you feeling like you can do better.

It’s in such experiences you learn that compromising on your type is compromising on happiness. You learn what your type is not. And one day you wake up and say, “I’m sorry, this is not working. It’s not you; it’s me.” It’s me because I chose you, thinking it would work. However, you leave knowing that the greatest thing you’ve lost is loyalty. They were loyal like the sun. That kind of loyalty is not sold in the streets.

However, you make peace as you tarmac again. Lease yourself to the wind of fate. An odyssey through the desert city with the hopes that soon, you will find your oasis. A place you can call home. A place you will love not out of compulsion but even more helplessly. Where you are not just admired and awed, but you also melt in their cotton-like arms. You’re appeased with how they do things. You’re a perfectionist, but for some celestial reason, you love their perfect. The energy matches; you don’t feel the need to tame your wild whenever you’re around them. In fact, they welcome it with open hands and legs. Every morning, you love what your eyes open up to. You can’t wait for them to get out of bed first so you can stare lecherously as they walk to the bathroom. You catch yourself whispering, “Look at that ass!” or “Yeah, flex that back, handsome!”

When you caress them with their love language, what follows are undertones of “Oh baba” and “Oh mama.”

Yea, mjango, this wasn’t about barbers.