“Your hair has a lot of white… why?”

I can think of several OTHER ways a relationship with a new barber might start, but this is what I got.

Let me take you back a little.

Moving to a different country comes with all sorts of experiences; some are pretty basic, and you’d never think to share them with anyone lest they think you are not all too familiar with ‘development’; others are mildly shocking and, in as much as you’d love to share them, you need time to process them and find the best narrative that removes any impression that you were complicit in that mess. 

And then there’s that other batch we’ll file under, “I really should have been better prepared.”

Getting a haircut away from home falls under this.

For most people, getting a trim has little to no fanfare -the barber admiring his handiwork and showering you with compliments you wouldn’t fault a copywriter for including in their next script, “I hope you’re not going to a wedding; you will take the attention away from the groom!” or the head washes and massages that have been likened to a low-key ‘happy ending.’

Even explaining to the barber what style you’re after is relatively straightforward. If it’s one you’ve forged a relationship with, it’s enough to say you’ll have “the usual” or “like the one of that other time.” if it’s a new guy, you should be able to get away with whipping out a selfie and asking him to achieve that look. Or, depending on where you shed your follicles, you should be able to point at a picture of a retired actor or musician in his heyday on a chart.

It doesn’t quite work that way in Dubai. And from what I’ve been told, many other parts of the world that are NOT Uganda.

I approached my first haircut with a bit of apprehension because;

1-  I’d heard they tend to be pretty expensive for foreigners

2-  With the shape/size of my head, I figured the barber would face some challenges (“Habibi, where do your people usually start from?”).

3-  And, of course, there was the notion that I’d be better off with a Ugandan barber because “they know our hair”.

The Egyptian barber seemed pleasant enough, and the initial routine was in line with what I had come to expect from back home. He ‘installed’ the neck protector, draped me in the hair shield, and took a step back to assess the situation – all routine stuff. At this point, he was the only staff member present, so I established that there’d be no post-shave shenanigans from the get-go.

And then, as you’d anticipate, he asked me how I wanted my hair cut, prompting me to ask for a “Fade.” I’d never looked back since I’d discovered that’s what it was called. Gone were the days of “some up here, then less here, then even less here, then even more less”.

Surely, “FADE’ was an international concept.

It is, but there’s a science to it. The barber wanted to know what my “numbers” were. For all the stories and small talk I’ve had with the guys back home, I never thought to take ANY interest in the different clipper attachment sizes. And while we’re at it, none of the barbers has ever taken a step back and praised his dexterity with implementing a ‘4-2-4 fade’.

I was stuck. And it wasn’t because of the language barrier that was asserting itself into the proceedings.

I tried the selfie approach, and even that didn’t yield results. I might as well have been sharing an unfunny meme.

We agreed to disagree, with the consensus being we’d make it up as we went along.

The next twenty minutes featured a lot of bargaining and negotiating hairclip sizes; it took me back to Math class, where we had to show the ‘working’ to prove we didn’t land on the answer purely by luck.

It also didn’t help that his music was competing for attention.

Giving credit where it’s due, he did try to forge a relationship against the fact that we were both from Africa. I also established that he has been in Dubai for a while, so I went through the typical talking points – how expensive it is, how crazy traffic can be, and, of course, the heat in summer. That last one, I imagine, was as warmly received as being asked about local swear words.

His technique involved running the machine as fast as possible over my head. There was no fanfare, no self-esteem boosters, just zipping back and forth, likely throwing my scalp for a loop.

And he was done. I have come to expect some aftershave after this sort of thing, but there was nothing of the kind, just a smile signaling the end.

The result didn’t rank among my worst haircuts but didn’t make it to my top 5. It also carried a few razor bumps at the back of my neck, forcing me to check with Google if gargling salty water also worked wonders for stuff like that. (Spoiler; It doesn’t).

Three weeks later, haircut number 2.

I’m not gonna lie; I was incredibly self-conscious after the first haircut, and being told I looked younger did nothing to make me feel better. My boss graciously offered directions to a salon he could vouch for in case I needed another haircut. 

This alone should tell you how much of a hit haircut number one was. 

The next time I needed to go under the clipper, I did seek out said salon but failed to find it. Also, it didn’t seem like the kind of thing you call the higher-ups about at 7 pm, so I decided to wing it.

I’d previously walked past this particular salon and seen a flurry of activity inside, suggesting there were, in fact, some people who trusted it. 

The evening I visited was empty, which made for an awkward introduction featuring sign language and the words, “You cut hair. This one. Mine?”. It’s not good form for a person who makes a living as a gatekeeper for grammar. 

An Indian gentleman ushered me to my seat and started the sacred ritual of installing a neck protector and hair-cutting cape (you’re welcome). I had my selfie-ready, just in case he was amenable. He wasn’t. Like the one before, he wanted me to share my fade equation. 

It might be a factor of aging, but it is getting harder to retain number sequences. The slot in my brain for that sort of thing has seemingly limited me to my ATM PINs, my phone’s unlock code, and about five or six phone numbers. 

I don’t have my bank account number off the top of my head, and I didn’t even try with my passport and national ID numbers.

Following the first haircut, however, I had a rough idea of what the success formula looked like so I eagerly shared, “2,3,2”. This was enough to get him started.

There was no music here, but we did play an abridged version of “What country do you come from?”. This time, however, the barber whipped out a blade to shape my hairline. 

Typically, when this happens, I’m asked if I want to keep my widow’s peak, to which I respond, “Nuh, I’m good.” This wasn’t always the case, as it was considered part of our family’s identity, and we had to guard it with our lives. 

Maturity revealed the surname works better.

This was a better cut than the first (no scalp massages), but I felt like we hadn’t quite gotten there. 

Then came haircut number three.

I’d hoped to check out a place that guys had recommended in a WhatsApp group (which ramps up the legitimacy of ANYTHING). Still, I was a little too far out and desperately needed to show up to work looking healthy the following day – the previous week had left its mark. We’ll get into that some other time.

After consulting with Google Maps and a friend, I zeroed in on a salon near my place – 4 minutes by car 20 or so on foot. Naturally, I chose to walk – how else would I confirm my fitness tracker worked?

As the Filipino barber ushered me to my chair, he volunteered the price for a cut and a shave, and I paused for a second, gathering my thoughts. It was, without a doubt, the highest so far, but what was the alternative, head home and do it myself? That only works for people with 0-0-0 cuts (I’m learning). Fighting with my inner voice, I reluctantly took my seat.

“Your hair has a lot of white… why?”

Thus went the barber’s icebreaker. I let him know it was because I was aging. He wasn’t buying it.

“How old are you?”

I’ve been asked this question since I got here, with most people refusing to believe my age. I volunteered it, expecting the same reaction. Turns out he was three years older than me. He shared this with a few flicks of his healthy hair.

I opined that he was probably doing something right, to which he replied proudly, “Yes, I color it.” 

While I have no doubt dying hair has its merits, I would never be able to muster the confidence it’s supposed to deliver, knowing people have previously seen my true colors.

The barber asked whether I was thirsty and offered me a drink.

“Do you want refreshment? Water? Coffee?”

I thought about how much I would spend on the haircut and resolved to get its worth. Sadly, they didn’t serve whisky sours, so I settled for a Coca-Cola, the size of which brought back memories of doing shots – yes, that tiny. I toyed with asking for 9 more to make up for it but reconsidered lest that formed another unfavorable narrative around people from my country.

“How do you want it?”

Having learned NOTHING from previous visits, I skipped the code approach and went straight to the selfie. He understood what I wanted. And his following words as he assessed my hair almost drew tears of joy.

“Ah, this is nice hair… it is like Nigeria or Uganda.” The only other time I’ve heard a phrase like that, the point of origin has been Brazil.

It was at that moment that I knew I was in good hands.

He started to work his magic, zipping here and there on the sides of my head, every so often encouraging me to sip my soda – “Bro, drink!”

Then the flair kicked in.

When he got to the top part, he discarded the clipper, got a comb and a pair of scissors, and got to work. 

My initial thought was this was a preliminary move. I was wrong and watched as it took shape. This might have explained why manual labor costs more- it takes a more significant toll.

Snip here, snip there. “Bro, your soda”. And more snipping. 

He did such an excellent job; it quashed any chances of expressing dissatisfaction with the hope of getting my money back or a rebate.

Just as I thought he was done, he asked whether I wanted to wash my hair. The only thing that came to mind was this was not unlike a baker actively destroying his masterpiece right after it had come out of the oven. His loss.

There was no aftershave, or at least, not the kind I was familiar with, but he rubbed some minty balm into my face and scalp, suppressing any desire by razor bumps to take shape… I think. I’ll keep you posted.

Then he was done. 

No names were exchanged, but I was sure I had finally found at least one barber in Dubai that I could confidently ask to give me “the usual”.