I shaved at the beginning of December, and did not trim my beard in any regular fashion until nearly the end of the month. Because long hair of any sort is most certainly not the norm here, I found people rather aghast at my appearance. Many people said I looked Osama Bin Laden. I did not, if fact, look so. I looked far more similar to Grizzly Adams or Paul Andersen. After about two or three weeks of comments about my ndevu, I eventually trimmed it (to be fair the bastard was terribly long). So the other night, I was at a store and the dude who runs the salooni (salon) struck a conversation with me and offered me a cigarette. Keep in mind, that cigarettes are not cheap here, and I was flabbergasted, because this was the first time that someone offered me a cigarette instead of pestering me for one*. Then he said, tuende salooni or, “let’s go to the salon.” I though “yeah, I might as well.” And so, This is the first time I’ve been able to communicate adequately how I want my hair to look. I told him I did not want my hair cut, but I wanted the beard trimmed, “Kama Timbaland.” Allow me to explain. When people said I had a beard like an old man or like a lion, or some other banal comment, I would reply “ah ah, kama Timbaland**.” You see, people here refer to a chin-strap as a “Timbaland.” In other words, in order to conform to Tanzanian standards I asked him to give me a chin-strap. I must also add, that African hair is more course, curly, and thick than follicle extrusions of the Caucasian persuasion. Every time I’ve had my beard shaved here he vigorously rubs the electric razor to my face, not quite drawing blood, but not far from it. Upon completion of my beard trim synonymous with college students who frequently lift heavy things, brag about the size of the heavy things they can lift, disrespect women, and then major in management, he began to trim my hair. Around the ears and cleaning up the back, fine, I needed done, but then he began to cut my bangs. He then combed my hair down flat and fashioned the hair into a straight line. Most Africans do not have a widow’s peak, and I have one that is very Slavic and Bella Lugosi-esqe. He summarily buzzed it off, though the hair directly above it is about a centimeter long. With the hair pushed down, I looked very similar to a medieval monk without a tonsure. It looks fine when I pushed up my hair, held in place by natural oils left by a lack of washing. A lack of washing caused by hygienic lethargy brought on by cold rainy weather and a lack of hot shower water. However, it is bordering on a very short Rockabilly pompadour. At this point I must consider a search for paten leather shoes, Reverend Horton Heat or Dick Dale records, and a Rickenbacher bass guitar. It actually does look pretty good. I’m not sure if an educated African who studied in America, let alone an African villager, would be able make these sorts of cultural comments in insult form. I am waiting patiently to see what people say about my hair. But for now, I am content to look like Timbaland and not Rutherford B. Hayes.
Oh, and P.S. there is a knockoff brand of Timberlands here called "Simbaland." I must buy a pair.
* I blame the European tourists who smoke like chimneys and still think that smoker’s code still applies here.
**”ah ah” is the Kiswahili equivalent of “uh uh”.
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