Haircuts

Just gave myself a DIY haircut with the buzzing razor, bending over and doing it by feel.

My last one was at Ngcolisi’s place Nwelezelanga (‘sunlight hair’) downstairs, sent there by order of the ladies at work who had been hinting for months.

A strapping young oke looked at me once I was in the chair (no namby pamby wash beforehand, what do the others think – I didn’t shower and shampoo that morning?) and said ‘Number One?’

He’d mistaken me for Msholozi!! Amazing.

Actually I realised what he meant when he approached me with those razor things that I use myself – for free – at home. I’m used to scissors when I’m paying.

You got a Number Four? I asked.

‘Sure’ he said and proceeded to spend AGES going over and over my head tearing at the roots slightly every now and then, but I’d left it so long that I was just happy it was being shortened. He fussed over it and trimmed here and there and then eventually let me go.

Fifty Ront. My kind of no-fuss, no wash haircut. And no yakking. He said a total of three words to me: “Number One?” and “Sure“.

But too long. I decided then that my next one would be just me and the machine, bending over, alone at home. Save fifty bucks and time.

~~~oo0oo~~~

I’ve seen expensive hairstylists before – in days gone by.

~~~oo0oo~~~

Later: Back when we wrote about haircuts I said:
My next one is going to be just me and the machine, bending over, alone at home. Fuck paying R50.

I’ve just finished (lo-ong overdue!) and I think I now know how the mullet was born. It’s quite hard to reach the middle at the back, so I have a suspicion (unconfirmed, can’t see) that my hair there is quite a bit longer than the rest of the 6mm setting of the zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz razor.

But 50 Ront in the bank is better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick . . . as my mate Doug Retief would say.

~~~oo0oo~~~