I've been at war with my hair ever
since childhood. Fiber optics uses cable
thicker than my hair. Even on the best
of days with top-of-the-line salon products, my shoulder-length bottle-blonde
do resembles wilted hay. I don’t have
bad hair days. I have a bad hair
life. But, the life-long battle with my
locks escalated to the global thermal nuclear level the year I volunteered in Tanzania .
When
I first walked through my new neighborhood in Tanzania , one of the poorest in
Arusha, I was surprised to see a building, more like a ramshackle hut with a
corrugated tin roof that advertised itself as the “International Hair Cutting
Saloon.” At first I thought “saloon” was a simple spelling mistake, but I soon
discovered that there were “hair saloons” all over Arusha.
What
could this mean? And why did the hair
saloon in my neighborhood advertise itself as “international?” Could I expect
to see jet setters flying into town to get their hair styled while swilling mugs
of cold beer or downing shots of whisky?
Like the Wild Wild West would there be gunfights over saloon girls who
doubled as hair stylists?
Every
day on the way to my volunteer job I walked by The International Hair Cutting
Saloon. I’d strain to catch a glimpse of
what was going on inside this curious establishment but was sorely
disappointed. Nothing ever
happened. I never saw a single customer
exit or enter the entire year. Even the
mangy dogs lying in front of the saloon day after day didn't do anything. They didn't move when a car drove by or when
a person approached them on foot. It was
as if the wards of all the animal hospitals in the world got together their
most hopeless and unhealthy dogs and released them here to live out their lives
in front of the hair saloon. I imagined
Humane Society officials visiting Arusha, bursting into tears and then falling
into a deep depression at the sight of these pitiful creatures.
As
the months went on the hard water, equatorial sun and lack of conditioning had
reduced my hair to a state of disaster.
My split ends had reached stratospheric levels, nearly to my scalp,
which unfortunately had done nothing to add volume. I could no longer ignore the state of my
tresses that were now the consistency of corn husks. But The International Hair Cutting Saloon was
certainly nothing like the chic salons I was used to visiting in the States.
And
then I heard of Ali, the self-proclaimed “European trained hair stylist.” I had
yet to secure an appointment with Ali, who was apparently famous in the way of Cher and Madonna, by first name only, as he was booked up
for weeks at a time.
I
soon learned that Ali, who was of Indian descent but had grown up in Tanzania , was infamous not just in the town of
Arusha, but throughout Tanzania
among the ex-pats. Shortly before seeing
him I’d met some American missionaries who worked several hundred kilometers
south of Arusha. They were in town to
buy supplies, eat pizza and get haircuts.
“Are
you going to Ali?” I asked them.
“Who
else?” they answered.
“What
is he like?” I asked. “Is he good?”
“He’s
okay but a bit of a character,” said one of the female missionaries. “You’ll
see.”
By
the time the day for my appointment had finally arrived, I was so panicked I
almost backed out. I’ve always been
nervous when trying a new hairdresser, but I especially anxious about getting
my hair cut in a developing country by a “bit of a character.”
Ali
looked like the type of stylist one might see in a horror movie about hair
salons. He had unruly tufts of black
hair jutting out at all angles from his head, an intense, somewhat maniacal
gaze and was wielding a large pair of cutting shears. He took one look at my hair and practically
fainted. Naturally, the subject of
conditioning came up.
“Castor
oil,” said Ali as he began cutting my hair. “That’s the key.”
I
looked confused.
“You
know, the stuff that makes you shit,” he added.
“Oh
right. How much do I use?”
“One
teaspoon,” said Ali. “Or one
tablespoon. And you mix it with olive
oil, the same amount.”
“All
right,” I replied feeling anything but.
“But
for God’s sake don’t use too much or you’ll never
get it out!”
“So,
is it a teaspoon or a tablespoon each of castor and olive oil?”
“That’s
what I said,” Ali replied, sounding perturbed.
Ali
snipped away in silence for several moments.
Maybe I should’ve gotten up the nerve to try the International Hair
Cutting Saloon after all?
“And,
about twenty minutes before rinsing, put an egg on your hair,” he added.
“A
whole egg?”
“Absolutely.”
“Why
an egg?”
“It
will help get the oil out,” he said.
It
sounded like I might have to have my head shaved if this didn't work but then
again, Ali seemed to be taking care of that already with his furious
clipping. With no mirror to see what was
going on, I could only judge how much hair he was chopping off by the
increasingly large mounds of it piling up on the floor.
“Or,
just use egg whites,” Ali said. “And
take a lemon with you into the shower and squirt that on your hair too, that
will really help to rinse it out.”
How
about if I add some romaine lettuce, Parmesan cheese and a few croutons while
I’m at it Ali?
I
left with far less hair than I’d arrived, but the haircut itself was decent
enough. Although I had six months left
in Tanzania
I never was brave enough to try Ali’s hair conditioning recipe. But if anyone reading this is, I recommend
that you hold the anchovies.
