Milestone: First Village Haircut!

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.