Family & Kids


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:

Family & Kids, Life

Hair Today

At last I get Jessie (kickin n screamin) to the hairdresser.
Her hair looks like she combed it with a firecracker (I should have taken a picture). She’s been washing it daily and tying it up in a bun. She’s not combing it all out daily.

I drop her off with Tom and buzz to work. They’ll walk back home via the shops.
“Just get a trim, don’t have it ‘straightened’ as you’ll be swimming all week – it’s not worth it” are my instructions.

So I get a whatsapp pic:

Jess Hair
And then a hurried phone call:
“Don’t worry Dad, I paid for Jess to have her hair straightened with my own pocket money” says her loving younger brother! Talking fast, pre-empting a bollocksing. “My own pocket money” means “an advance which I have yet to ask you for”.
Knows how to arse-creep, that one.

I had also given them the grocery money (Cecelia is away), which is now diminished thanks to the extra hair spend.

“Dad, I bought you a rump steak and choc mint Ola ice cream”. Both his favourites.
No veggies.



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 50 bucks.

Aitch, Family & Kids, Life

Hair Today

Years ago I wrote about my hairdresser then. She had more to do than my hairdresser now.
I went and saw her one day and realised I’d chosen the wrong time. Fergie was getting married to the porky prince and all the ladies were glued to the telly, ooh-ing and aah-ing. Bloody ‘Royal Family’ mania!
I can come back later, I offered.
No, its fine, she lied and set to trimming my locks, out of view of the Pomp ing Ceremony.

Have you seen? she asked in her pronounced Affies or Dirkie Uys accent.
No, not really interested, said anti-monarchist me.
Ag, Saahra looked so beautiful as she stepped out of the cart, she gushed.
Actually, I think she had it right!

Now my CURRENT hairdresser is something else. Saw her yesterday. Much less to do, but hey!
Presses her boobs against me; Stands with her thighs on either side of mine; Pats me tenderly; Fusses over me; Quite a performance.
And charges me nothing! FREE haircuts for me.

Course, I’m married to her . . .