It is weekend and I want to spend some time outside. The sun - izuba - is shining and the weather is very pleasant. It is a pity to spend the whole day inside, sitting in the office.
Today, I want to get my hair done. Yesterday, Beatrice and I asked for an appointment at a saloon near the office, but the price they requested was too high. It is because they rent a big place. Now we are looking for smaller places. On our way along the street in Kabeza, Beatrice stops at a shop that sells beds. It is a small room only with two bed frames next to each other and another one leaning against a wall in separated parts. The walls are decorated with pictures of more furniture. It smells like fresh paint. Along the road, there are carpenters and also men working on iron gates, cutting pieces and painting. It must be extremely dangerous to work like this, with so little protection. There are many saloons. We stop at some to ask for an appointment, but usually they have other customers already. Beatrice actually arranged one for me at 2 pm, but we would prefer to start right now, which is why we are looking for other opportunities. The saloons are small rooms with mirrors and couches, usually crowded with women getting their hair braided or just sitting there, waiting or watching. Eventually, we find one - Belle dame - where they can start with me immediately. It is a slightly bigger saloon. Three ladies are getting their hair done, two getting braids and the other one, a pregnant lady, having hers removed. There are two chairs facing mirrors, couches along the walls and three of these old-looking machines where you put your head to get curls, I don’t know what they are called. In one corner there is a shelf with beauty products and in another corner a fridge with drinks.
When Beatrice has finished explaining what I want my hair to be like, they tell me to sit down on the mat in front of one of the couches and one of the ladies starts tying my hair together. They are going to use four packages of dark chocolate brown hair. I doubt they will manage to find space for all that hair on my head.
My head bend down, my view is very limited now and I see feet only. A girl called Lisa takes care of another customer’s feet. She removes old nail polish, cuts the nails, washes the feet, scrubs them with a brush, puts cream on them, colours them with new nail polish. I have nothing to do but watch. Sometimes I glimpse on what is done with the other ladies’ hair. They braid it in such a way, that it is all attached flat to the head and nothing sticks up. Then, with black thread and a needle, thick strands of straight fake hair is sewn to the real hear. The pregnant lady has removed all the fake hair by now and she is brushing her own black frizzy mane. They look so different with other hairdos. I am getting uncomfortable on the floor and shift my position. I also feel a bit hungry and wonder how long my hairdo will take. The women are chatting, music is playing. Now and then, men come to sell shoes or shirt. Customers come and go. I find it funny how they always take off their flipflops before stepping on the mat although it is covered with hair and paper anyway. A man takes care of the few male customers and shaves them.
Two women are now working on my head. One is tying the brown hair to my own, the other one finishing the braiding. I lean against their legs which is comfortable. It is a touch I can focus on while I feel the pulling on my scalp. I forgot how painful it is in parts. The feeling of hunger is gone by now. Glancing out of the window, I see that the sun is not shining straight from above anymore. The pregnant women is now braiding another pregnant woman’s hair, tying straight reddish brown strands into it. It looks complicated, but she is fast. She braids only one half of the strands and then makes a knot. Later, she uses a candle to burn off the un-braided part. The floor beneath the chair is slowly being covered with a layer of short strands. An interesting technique, but the result looks really good. I sit in a position facing the fridge and should be able to see reflections, but I can’t make out how I look now. I am tempted to touch the finished braids, but restrain myself. It is not the time yet. I notice that the middle toe of the right foot of the lady working on me is as short as the last toe. The sun is low now, as I can see by the orange coloured light shining on a wall next to the window. The room is more quiet and the music has stopped as well. I talked only once when they asked me if I came from America or Canada. ‘I come from Germany.’ - ‘Ah, is that in the west of America?’ - ‘That is in Europe.’ - ‘Ah.’ The four packages of hair are gone, but they are not finished. A bit more, then finally, the last braid. I stand up, the legs surprisingly steady, and follow the lady to the back room. There is another chair in front of another mirror and a barrel with water. I look into the mirror and see my face framed by a chaotic mess of long, brown braids. I turn away. The lady shows me how to sit and lean back my head. It is almost impossible. The hair is too heavy for my neck to support. The lady soaks the braids in steaming hot water and then uses a towel, also soaked with the hot water, to press it against my head. A very relieving, soothing sensation. I wish she would continue. Now, she puts the braids in order, arranging them to fall in the same directions. Some other ladies make the first remarks and advice her to tie it together. Black thread is used to function like a hairband to keep the braids in place. When I dare look into the mirror again, I am impressed by the change. The hair is really long and reaches down to my breast. The colour looks almost black and the braids are not too big, covering everything. ‘Murakoze cyane’ - Thank you. It looks really nice.
It is dark as I leave the saloon. The watch confirms my estimate. 6:26 pm. I was here for over seven hours.
