I gotta say, it turned out a lot better than I anticipated.
My only objective was to get rid of my baby mullet and the layer of insulation
that my hair had become, but I think the village barber did a lovely job.
As far as I know, there are only two “coiffeurs” in
Nyambaka, and they both cut hair exclusively for men—women grow their hair out
and have it braided—but I was getting desperate, as the volunteer who would cut
my hair is currently out of the country for a minor medical procedure. (Get
well soon, Taylor!)
The “barbershop” isn’t a shop so much as a kiosk, with one
swiveling office chair for the individual being coiffed and three small stools
for waiting customers. When I arrived early in the evening, all of the stools
were occupied, and two teenage boys (one of which is a student of mine in
seconde) were leaning on the rectangular cutout of the kiosk that served as a
window.
“Bonsoir,” I said to the barber, after greeting all of his
customers. “Have you ever cut a nasara’s [a white person’s] hair before?”
“Yes!” he quickly replied, defensive but good-natured.
“You’re not my first nasara customer. But I’ve never cut a white woman’s hair
before.”
“That’s not a problem.” I had already decided that if this
haircut turned out horribly or far too masculine, I could just wear a headscarf
until I found someone to fix it.
Once it was my turn in the swivel chair, I was much more of
a spectacle than I had anticipated. Yes, being one of two white people in
Nyambaka means that I’m always a spectacle, but I had underestimated the impact
the neighborhood’s token white woman being in a men’s barber shop would make. A
small crowd gathered outside the cutout window until the barber closed the
makeshift curtain.
Another one of my students in seconde passed by, and said to
his classmate, “Nasara debbo na?” which means something like, “Is that white
person a woman?”
I hadn’t said anything about the crowd outside the window,
but I lost my temper for a moment hearing my student disrespect me. “I’m not
stupid,” I spat in French. “I know that you’re talking about me, and you know
that I’m a woman. Women can have short hair too, you know.”
He started to backtrack, but I cut him off. Normally, if I
misunderstand something in Fulfulde, people will tell me or translate for me. By
the silence that fell in and around the kiosk, I could tell that I was right,
that he had been talking about me.
One thing I found curious was that before I even left the
barbershop, I received reactions of both extremes, and from people I didn’t
expect. A middle-aged gentleman who was waiting for his turn smiled at me and
said in English, “It is very beautiful.” Meanwhile, a young woman, who was
there with her boyfriend, told me “women are prettier with long hair.” I wasn’t
offended or surprised by this last comment: when I lived with the Abate family
in Ebolowa, they would often tell me that I would be prettier if I had long
hair. This kind of frankness seems to be innate in Cameroonians, and I’ve come
to appreciate their honesty, even if it’s not couched in politeness like that
of Midwesterners.
Once the barber had finished, I removed the bed sheet that had
been draped around me and handed the barber a 500-franc coin. It was one of the
cheapest haircuts I’ve ever had, and one of the most informative.
