A hair-raising experience

I am fascinated by this town called Lagos, partly because there is never a dull moment, and you always have to expect the unexpected. Take a regular visit to the hairdresser’s, an absolute must for any woman living here, since Nigerian women are generally so well groomed that messy hair is tantamount to social suicide. Finding myself on the mainland one afternoon, with my hair appointment overdue and short of time as usual, I decided to visit a popular salon recommended by a friend. I strolled in and had the instant sensation of being a lamb to the slaughter, as several pairs of hardened eyes swivelled in my direction, summing up my appearance as “one of those uptown women who has lost her way and wandered unsuspectingly into our lair”.

I identified myself as wanting to have a weave on (“fixing” in Naija parlance), manicure and pedicure. Something about the ambiance of the place made me ask in advance what the charges were, and I got the grudging response. I noted that the price she quoted for fixing was more than I had seen another customer pay for the same service as I entered the premises, but decided to let it pass rather than argue over it. I sat down and awaited my turn amidst the loud gossiping and “friendly” mutual abuse floating over the customers’ heads.

To kick off the less than wonderful experience, the male hair washer carelessly splashed me from head to toe in droplets of cold water, while tunelessly singing what purported to be popular RnB tunes loudly into my left ear.

Having escaped from his unruly ministrations into the stylist’s chair, I established what I wanted with difficulty, as we both appeared to be speaking a language foreign to each other – particularly my use of “please”, “thank you” and “I would like…” rather than “I want…” She briskly informed me that the necessary hair attachments would cost me a figure I knew fully well was almost double what I would pay on the street. So I took my temporary leave from my hair expert and went 50 metres down the road to buy what I needed, no doubt leaving her somewhat disgruntled that this aje bota woman should be so stingy and prevent her from pocketing the excess at the expense of her boss.

On my return, I finally settled down to have my nails done. My feet were the first to come under attack, by sheer incompetence and brute force. The pedicurist must have been an industrial cleaner with vast experience in scrubbing dirty floors in her previous job. She scraped my feet so hard that I later found there were painful craters in my soles. The polish job was so messy even a hyperactive five year old could have done better. I was then transferred to the attentions of a smarmy lady overflowing with “Aunty, this” and “Aunty, that”. Unfortunately her milk of human kindness act went a little sour when she began to discuss the possibility of ripping me off by passing some of my nail art transfers to one of her colleagues to sell on to her own client – in my koro koro eyes, in a Nigerian language she recklessly assumed I didn’t understand. I said nothing. When she finished my nails, still full of false bonhomie and equally false expectations of a good tip, I turned to her and asked for my remaining nail transfers. She brazenly continued in the same vein to her audience, “Oh, she’s asking for her stuff now, can you imagine?” I coolly replied in the same language, “If you wanted my leftovers, all you had to do was ask, instead of belittling me to my face. Here you are – it’s all yours. And next time, try not to be so two-faced.” She had the good grace to look ashamed and apologise profusely.

By this time, I was desperate to get out of this house of horrors. As I gathered my bag to leave, the owner entered the salon, to a chorus of “Chief, welcome!” “Good afternoon, Chief!” The poor deluded man obviously felt his business was in safe, sincere hands, as they love-bombed him and showered him with cheerful greetings.

(I was tempted to ask him to turn his back to check if there were any knives sticking out.) As I hobbled out with my overpriced hairdo, second-rate polish job and damp clothes, “Chief” called out after me, “Madam, we will be expecting you next time”.

I gave him a sickly smile and said nothing. “To be frank, sir”, I thought hollowly, “I would rather shave off all my hair and bite my nails to the quick than suffer a repeat experience”. No wonder they say “Beauty hurts!” 

© Ronke Macaulay, 2007