By Akut Francis
One Saturday afternoon of that year, I passed by the barber and found a stranger loafing around. I took one glance at him and went my way. Three hairy visits later, and no barber in sight, I was compelled to ask the loafer where my barber was.
“Saab’eq mash’a bara!” (Your friend just left) so I decided to entrust this new chap with my head and regretted it the moment he started doing his thing.
While my runaway barber was a top-notch pro who barely spoke and cleared the operation in two and half minutes flat, this new clown kept talking till I got a headache.
He fed me a long yarn about the big and mighty heads he had had the privilege of shaving, among them Jesus, Angel Gabriel and Lucifer etecrea etcerea, and a coterie of senior world Politicians including Obama, Ghandi, Dr. John Garang and now me. Lies, all of it, lies.
But what got to me was what he was doing with my head. He twisted my neck like a hangman. He tortured my scalp the way a butcher skins a zebu. By the time I walked out, I was traumatised. I never went back.
My next barber turned out to be a woman, who wasn’t not only wearing a bra but had a softest deep cleavage. Don’t ask me silly questions, like how I knew. I may have one good eye only but it sure as hell can tell dangling knockers when it sees them.
Thing is this new barber wasn’t bad. But somewhere along the line, I formed the impression that there was something untoward about the manner her touchie-touchie hands kept manoeuvring on me.
But because I believe firmly that the girlchild should be supported, and I didn’t have time to look for a new barber, I returned for seven more haircuts in seven days. On all these occasions, I can confirm authoritatively that her chest gear was not fastened with a seat belt.
I had become accustomed to that and no longer found it a bother except that on this occasion, it became clear to me that she was purposefully dangling and rubbing those gadgets on my back, loosely hanging intentionally above my compound eyes when seated, shaking at a romantically co-ordinated intervals.
My paternal grandma who was, during her days, a soul activist and a staunch advocate of salvation and righteousness, sent her departed spirit to scream “Nyanjuur!” in my ear and I fled, never to return.
My instincts were correct. When I bumped into her in a pub a year later, she tottered drunkenly towards me, offered me a raw unsolicited hug and slurred, “Heey Frank, I have moved here, anyways its location that have changed but I’m still giving the same high-end services. I still offer massage too!”
Of course I did not take up the offer. Personally, I think massage is a load of rubbish. I would be crazy to have a stranger kneading my buttocks like a guondo harvesting warts of kisra for 9,000 SSP. Waste of rent cash. Anyway, I did find a great barber. Taciturn, professionally entertaining and fast.
Unfortunately, she has an assistant whose colourful inner chinos pant is always peeping through the top of her jeans. But I reminded my myself that I am half blind anyway so I could see no evil. Until she offered to give me a face scrub. I have never laughed so hard. Me? Get my face painted with white goo like a bride and get scrubbed like it’s a sin to walk around wearing dead skin on my face?
And then she started kneading my head. “No massage please. Just wash my head, nothing more, lest the demons in my head pop out and frighten you to death,” I warned sternly.
She laughed, missing the point that I took exception to being sexually assaulted in broad daylight. Ooh, and I ordered her to leave my dandruff alone. I am a keen conservationist Junubi.