Life is a wonderfully strange thing. One might expect picking up sticks and moving to central Africa would affect some deep, profound changes in a person, but up to this point I have experienced just the opposite. The larger, grander, more abstract ideas shaping my perspectives and judgments about life remain relatively unchanged. Instead, I would argue that Africa has been a gratifying wake-up call about how humorous and interesting everyday life can be when mundane tasks witness the greatest changes.
Cleaning dusty concrete floors with an oversize squeegee and ratty push broom. Laboriously boiling and filtering drinking water. Squatting at a small plastic basin painstakingly scrubbing clothes by hand for hours. Eating an eighty percent pure starch diet composed mostly of spongy rice, unadorned spaghetti, mashed green bananas, gelatinous white corn porridge, and beans (it’s a chore, trust me). Walking four kilometers to shop at a basic market, have a cup of tea and doughnut, pick up mail, buy airtime for a cellphone, or, as was the case last Saturday, get a haircut.
God it makes me laugh just sitting here thinking about it as I write this. In Rwanda, some of the simplest things become such incredibly complex and inscrutable mental exercises. The process of getting a haircut may be the most exquisite example to date. What would be a simple, perhaps mindless, decision at home threatened to become a perplexing slog up and down the main strip of Nyagatare, me venturing to each different hair salon, apprehensively trying to steal a furtive glance inside without drawing too much attention to myself. Well, as you can imagine, that was a stupid notion. I stick out like the sorest sore thumb possible!
Now, by this point I have lost just about all of my awkward inhibitions. There’s nothing to do but get on with whatever you’ve got to do, and I heartily thank Rwanda for beating most of those stupid social reluctances out of me. Usually it’s always good for a laugh anyway, but a bad haircut is no laughing matter. So I found myself in the now rare position of fretting about a terribly simple task.
Where on earth do I go to get a haircut? Who can I trust to not royally screw things up? Will someone even attempt to cut my curly, unruly hair? How much will I have to bargain to avoid a massive umuzungu rip-off? I felt strangely unsure and anxious. Disaster scenarios began unfolding in my mind, and I momentarily paused to consider whether I really needed a hair cut (I most definitely did).
Well, after a gut-bomb breakfast of rich African tea and two dense Amandazi doughnuts, I strolled down to Texas Saloon (yes, Texas; yes, saloon – they don’t differentiate here, which makes the whole hair cut process that much more comical). Texas, I remembered, had been recommended by another teacher, so it seemed reasonable to give it a shot. Stepping through the rope curtain swaying gently at the doorstep, I made my usual Kinyarwandan greetings and took a seat on a small threadbare sofa just inside the door. Every set of eyes in the tiny joint were instantly transfixed on me and my shock of wild flyaway hair. I barely had time to set my bag down and compose myself when a particularly helpful customer across the room gestured animatedly for me to take a seat at one of the stations. I had walked in just as another patron was finishing – well at least the timing worked out.
I won’t bore you with the dreadfully uninteresting details about the hair cut itself. I’ll only mention that it seemed to take an exceptionally long time for a simple clipper cut, but the guy was insistent that things be just as he thought they ought to be. I also freely admit it was not a terrible cut given the situation, although much too short. And the best part? After an entire day’s worth of walking, haircutting, tedious school work, unsuccessfully attacking our resident wasps, half-heartedly weeding our small vegetable patch in the blazing sun next to a large swarm of army ants, and dozing restlessly in the oppressive mid-afternoon heat, I met Evan in town for dinner and a cold beer. After a couple drinks at the bar, who should make an appearance but the exact same guy who cut my hair twelve hours earlier in the same red gingham shirt and ballcap. We exchanged the basic pleasantries, had a beer together, and then Evan and I cleared off for the night. Rwanda, I thought quietly to myself as we trudged off in search of a moto home, is truly a small place.
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