Guinea Pig Haircut

I’m always amazed at how something as mundane as getting my haircut inevitably turns into a rather large production. So I anticipated my first haircut in Ghana would not disappoint. Despite my pursuit of nappiness my fine and oily hair is not suitable for the hot comb.

Although untested, I believe Ghana’s blossoming stylists represent something close to 10% of the country’s GDP, with a barber shop at nearly every junction. So one Sunday, when my hair was approaching carrot top status (I know, crazy, since I didn’t have red hair), when the foliage had created a nice canopy suffocating my ears, I went with a few Fellows to test our luck at the local hair salon.

Thankfully, we beat the church rush and were the first clients of the afternoon. After the stylist removed the copy machine from his store (I suppose he dabbled in the printing business as a side-job), there was room for him to invite the three of us into the barber shop. Of course, I was the guinea pig of the lot, or the vanguard as I like to spin it, and wasn’t sure what to expect. I surveyed the wall, where displayed were 50 pictures of various hairstyle options. Unable to distinguish between a single one of the 50 hairstyles, much like a game of Texas hold’em, I decided to fold before the flop and asked for a buzz cut.

Approximately 30 minutes, one Coca-Cola, and half of a confusing Ghanaian war movie later, I was sporting a fresh cut. Only later did we notice that the barber missed a chunk, and fellow Fellow, Kyle, pulled out the utility scissors to make amends, eliciting haunting flashbacks to my childhood.

The last time I took liberty to sculpt my own topiary, I was still learning the difference between right and left (and apparently right and wrong). After trimming my bangs, I asked my playmate Christina for her opinion of my new dew. Later that evening, when my mother asked about my new look, I deferred blame to virtuous Christina. Needless to say, after a few rounds of scolding, and after crying hysterically into my dinosaur comforter, I was forced to apologize to Christina’s parents for my mendacious behavior. Lesson learned; next time give the scissors to someone else. Thank you Kyle.