Getting a haircut in Kenya is a big deal. I figure in the two years I’ve been here I’ve gotten eight or so haircuts (the best of those being Sara’s). I can specifically remember three that were terrible, but I’m gonna go ahead and round that up to four because I’m sure that’s a more realistic figure. Here’s a few notes about the haircut I just got tonight in Westlands after work:
- My heart dropped and stayed in my stomach for the entire twenty-minute ordeal.
- Why did it take him so long to find the scissors, and why are all the other (Kenyan) men only getting their beards trimmed?
- I should be put asleep for these kinds of procedures.
- Is this guy drunk? Why isn’t one of those nice-looking, fashionable ladies cutting my hair instead?
Despite all that, I’ve now washed and touched up my hair with my pair of scissors and it’s not looking so bad after all. I also bought a new pair of shoes to replace the beat-up pair I already had, so tomorrow I’ll probably cause a scene at work when everyone sees the “new” Alan. HAHA!
Also, stay tuned: pictures of the marathon are out, but I haven’t sorted through them all!