Doin it Mr. T style

I have fluffy hair. It is generally useless besides protecting my head from UV rays. It doesn’t exactly add any aesthetic value to my appearance unless it’s an afro or number 0 brush cut. Anywhere in-between these two “styles” (yes I use the word very lightly) my hair takes on one of three looks: a) hospital grade cotton wool when brushed, b) bush or mice-trails as my dad used to affectionately call them when not, and c) uneven spikiness and mayhem when washed. When my hair reaches that uncomfortable length in between disobedient lamb’s wool and uncontrollable anarchy it’s usually time for a haircut.

One Tuesday night I decided it was time to sheer my poorly behaved lamb’s wool before heading off to young adults’ Bible study. Samba, my resident barber extraordinaire, was at the helm of my cheap and nasty clipper (or sheerer if you prefer) and was dealing decisively with my steely-willed locks of fury. Making good progress; Samba only had one half of the top of my head to rout to prevail in the battle of bush mouse so to speak. Then everything went black. Wait. Maybe I just blinked too long. What happened to the melodious sound of my clipper? Maybe the power just tripped, but why are the outside lights out too? With dread it started dawning on me that we had just been load-shed. Samba found this hilarious, and couldn’t stop laughing. I wasn’t quite as enamoured. 

Armed with a candle we went to the bathroom to inspect the damage in the mirror. It was bad, I had this off-centre, and lopsided Mohawk going on that would’ve made Mr T say “I pity the fool who walks around like that!” I needed to sit down and regroup on the barber chair. Okay, I had a few options a) sit and wait for the power to come back on, that wasn’t too difficult in fact I was doing it at that time anyway, b) get the scissors out and start finishing the job. Nah, that would take four hours and still look terrible c) wash my hair, put on a beanie and pretend my head was getting cold, or d) sit and wallow in my disgust at the whole affair. You guessed it I chose d. Samba was hysterical at this point guffawing at my plight as I sat on the barber chair with the clipper in my hands praying that the power would come back on quickly so that she could finish the job and we could still get to young adults. 

Naturally the power stayed off and Samba told me to stop being ridiculous, wash my hair, put a beanie on and get ready before it’s too late. So I did, and it was itchy and sweaty under that beanie I tell you, but it was not coming off, even under the searing heat of pastor Chris’s down lights. Eventually we got home and to my horror the lights were still not on! 

I had work the next day. I can’t wear a beanie to work. This brought a whole new set of concerns to bear: Would they possibly fall for a story of me having a head cold and needing to keep it warm? What if I told them I was bitten by a spider with a nasty neurotoxin which is causing my hair to fall out? Is it socially acceptable to wear a peak cap with formal work clothes? Can this ever be considered a fashion statement? I was in a bind, and didn’t sleep easily that night.

About 5am the next morning I was up and the first thing I did was go for the light switch. Yes! There was power! I quickly woke Samba out of the coma she’s normally in that early in the morning, and gave her the clipper. She quickly turned my haute couture Mohawk of misery into a distant memory and then returned to her comatose state in her bed. I am SO tempted to say “Now that was a close shave.” but I’ll resist.