Nice when you know things for sure. More and more becomes grey in my life, less and less is black-and-white.

Not quite 50 shades yet, but a few shades of grey. Certainly not even blackish-and-whiteish.

But not so in TomTom’s 13yr-old world. Things are certain.

Like: Women don’t cut men’s hair.

What do I mean? It’s a known fact that only men cut men’s hair. Women wouldn’t know how to and anyway they don’t know the latest styles. Which is what we need. Obvious. I had taken him to a lady who advertised that she did same in Westville. That would have been handy. But when we got there, mutter mutter, her side-kick, manning the store in her absence said “We don’t cut hair,” as she fiddled with a lady’s hair, rubbing some gunk into it. All heads in the store had swivelled round to see what this mlungu was doing there! I’m sure some braids were done crooked that day.

Tom marched out smartly with a look that said “SEE!?”

So Sunday I load up Tom and his mate Jose and take them to town. Drop them off at Warwick Triangle to cut their hair and catch a taxi home. Managed to horrify them by suggesting that I join them. You’ll look SO out of place says Tom. No thank you sir, says Jose.

Must say they look neat kif swell cool whatever word is acceptable today (all those will be wrong).

He won’t even let me cut his hair anymore. He used to:

Two haircuts snapped when halfway done.


The art of wooing, old style

Tom says Why are your arms so hairy, Dad? looking at them in wonder and at his hairless arms.
It’s because when I was young we had to fight off lions and wrestle them to the ground and shoo them away so we could eat their impala. And if they bit us, the hair would give us some protection.

As I’m talking he starts an Ooh, I’m SO impressed expression, widening his eyes and nodding.
Then he hugs me, pats me on the back patronisingly and says:
No wonder Mom fell for you, Dad.