My Mum is notorious for concocting bad puns. If you are unfamiliar with this fact it is because she generally doesn’t publicise these cringe-worthy ‘witticisms’, unless of course she sincerely believes that they are funny. One of her most recent works of art is the line ‘those dreaded locks’, in reference to my infamous mop of hair.
Next Saturday, the 13th of March, ‘those dreaded locks’ will be no more. As part of my attempts to raise money for important development initiatives in Africa I will be going completely bald. Sponsor money raised will go towards the organisation MASLIM. (See bottom of article for more details) With this in mind I think it is fitting to look (not ‘lock’) back on the trials and tribulations of having long hair…
The idea of returning home from Africa with a ‘well-travelled’ appearance to surprise my family was on the cards from the very beginning. Darrell asked me to promise him that I wouldn’t attempt to grow facial hair, while Mum gave me strict orders to see a hairdresser at least once a month. But when you’re halfway around the world you aren’t bound by the restrictions that home-life throws at you. In contrast you’re free to do whatever you want. Potentially this principle could have seen me become any of the following: alcoholic, avid party-goer, Nigerian drug lord, South African witch doctor, Somalian pirate or perhaps even a Masaai tribesman. Subsequently the act of growing my hair a little longer than usual doesn’t seem so bad, does it?
For obvious reasons I didn’t publically disclose much information about my hair growing progress to anyone at home. In fact I intentionally created suspense in at least two of my blogs by revealing that some form of surprise was awaiting them. Furthermore in a Skype video call to my parents I assured them my computer was webcam-free. Some were inclined to believe that I had become a father of a little African Kevin. I was quick to dismiss those accusations. Below is the uncensored story of my hair, as I figure that from Saturday onwards I won’t get much of a chance to tell it anymore.
My quest to attain dreadlocks was more complicated than I imagined it to be. No local hairdressers provided an adequate hairdressing service. The students in my class decided to have a crack, but their efforts failed due to the inappropriateness of my silky smooth straight hair (“Ohh, you’re hair is so beautiful! Is it real?” they would ask me after running their hands through it).
A trip to Swaziland saw better fortunes. As part of a traditional tour of the country I requested to be taken to a hairdresser. Having paid a bucket load for the overnight excursion I figured that I may as well make use of the chauffeur service and be dropped off at Manzini’s internationally renowned salon ‘The Dreadz Master’. Entering the shop felt a little surreal – one of my main African goals was about to finally be realised. However my anticipation was thwarted a minute later when one of the hairdressers gave me one quick glance and concluded that giving me dreadlocks was simply not possible. Immediately I gave up on my hopes and dreams and walked away dejectedly, however my tour guide evidently had a more fighting spirit. A few minutes of negotiations convinced them to call their head honcho, a guy who had previously dealt with extreme cases similar to me.
Thirty minutes later this supposed expert was still yet to arrive and once again I felt the weight of defeat. But lo and behold moments before I decided to walk out he appeared and brought me good news of great joy.
Two hours and five hairdressers later I was a new person. No longer was I Daggy Kevin, the kid with the unfashionable mop, but Slightly Cool Kevin, with hair that somewhat resembled dreadlocks.
This transformation process was painstaking and tedious but certainly worthwhile. It began with Celmusa – the head honcho – grabbing chunks of my hair, smothering them in ‘gel wax’ and twisting them in circles using his specialised comb. He continued this process for the next hour or so, slowly converting my Beatles-esque doo into a paddock of spikes. A second hairdresser came to the fore and was given the responsibility of tying up each of these individual chunks of twisted hair with bits of string. At one point a third hairdresser was on my case, which was slightly troubling (Was I going have to pay each of them separately? After all, how was I to know? This was my first time at a hairdresser in… well, my whole life). To finish off Celmusa returned to style my hair, but upon realising that he had made me look like a complete tool I refuted his work and asked him to simply make it look messy.
Braving the internal heat of the building and a ferocious storm outside I managed to get away with paying R200, the equivalent of about $30. At the time I didn’t know whether I had gained a bargain or had been ripped off, but word on the street says that the same process would have cost $200 in Australia.
Since that day – Monday November the 9th for those who are interested – I have temporarily assumed a new identity, or at least some individuals have begun perceiving me a little differently. My fellow volunteers, teachers and students were once again lining up to touch my hair while random passers-by would often comment on how nice it looked. However honeymoon periods don’t last forever.
After a month of not washing it I returned home to surprise my family and friends at Melbourne airport. Within minutes my Mum – who, bare in mind, had not seen me in 8 months – was plotting ways to get rid of it and commenting on how disgusting she thought it was. The next day, upon finding out that I hadn’t washed it she was remarking about its foul smell. Nobody else seemed to notice this smell. Perhaps I just have nice friends?
Ironically washing my hair initiated a downward spiral. No longer did I own dreadlocks, but really long and messy hair. It reached the stage where I had to begin wearing a bandana, the only logical way of keeping it out of my eyes (I couldn’t manage to fit a hat on my head and the Velcro strip on the back of baseball caps had a tendency of pulling my hair apart). The bandana craze is still yet to take out, however I am yet to give up hope that I might have reignited this forgotten and highly underrated fashion.
My recent decision to have my hair shaved off was affirmed as the most suitable option one day when I was walking home from the shops. Upon gazing into the window of Cash Converters I noticed my mirror image reflection. I was looking at a boy with a mullet: a disgusting, disorderly, derelict mullet.
You can’t get a better reason for a haircut than that.
Arguably becoming bald is a more obscure fashion statement than gaining ‘dreadlocks’ but fashion has never really been my forte anyway. On the contrary my intention is raise some money for people that genuinely need it. From my time abroad I have learnt that financial contributions from overseas can do a lot in assisting the less fortunate and that is something I have since become very passionate about. MASLIM – an organisation that runs from Monash University – supports a variety of community initiatives in rural South Africa, and is certainly a worthy cause.
If you would like to sponsor me, I have set up a bank account dedicated to this event.
Alternatively if you don’t feel comfortable with that I can give you details for MASLIM’s account. Note that this is not tax deductable, if that means anything to you.
Furthermore if you are interested in coming along to watch it all take place, details can be found at http://www.facebook.com/home.php?#!/event.php?eid=340611244582
[...] be too surprising. After all, my reputation is on the line here; it is vital that I meet prior standards. Beard? What beard? If only I had this snake on me at Petronas Towers… would have come in [...]