A close shave with disaster
I got off my bike and noticed the smell of roasted corn from the woman across the street by the Post Office. I could hear market women talking softly as they finished up for the day. In the background, a church choir was practicing for tomorrow’s service, with the pianist hitting the wrong notes but it didn’t bother me much as long as people were praising God. I also heard a child crying, and I knew it was just a typical African mom doing her thing.
I looked straight into the small barbershop that had seen better days, the mirrors were so dusty you could barely see your own reflection, But no wahala sha, the men wey dey there no come for clean mirror, na hair we come barb. I walked in, ready for my normal lowcut, no tapers. The air was thick with the smell of aftershave and one other foul smell (E sure me die say person mess for that shop true-to-god! But all man lock up), The evening sun was peeking through the tiny window, casting long shadows across the faded Nollywood posters on the wall, so faded you could barely make out actual faces. I could swear I saw Hitler on the catalog.
I sat down, looked the barber dead in the eye, and said, "Oga, I want make my carvings show!" He nodded like he knew exactly what I meant. So, I relaxed in the chair, feeling the cool metal of the clippers glide over my head. The sound of the buzzing clipper was almost soothing, like a lullaby. But then, something felt off. I opened one eye and caught a glimpse of the mirror... CHRIST!!!
I turned and stared at the barber, speechless. He was still nodding, as if he had just delivered the masterpiece of the century. "Oga na you talk say you want make your carving show na," he said with a grin, clearly proud of his work. And show they did-every single one, in all the wrong places! I opened my mouth to speak, he blow powder fuuuuu for my face so I swallowed powder and kept quiet immediately In my full life I have never felt so
I looked straight into the small barbershop that had seen better days, the mirrors were so dusty you could barely see your own reflection, But no wahala sha, the men wey dey there no come for clean mirror, na hair we come barb. I walked in, ready for my normal lowcut, no tapers. The air was thick with the smell of aftershave and one other foul smell (E sure me die say person mess for that shop true-to-god! But all man lock up), The evening sun was peeking through the tiny window, casting long shadows across the faded Nollywood posters on the wall, so faded you could barely make out actual faces. I could swear I saw Hitler on the catalog.
I sat down, looked the barber dead in the eye, and said, "Oga, I want make my carvings show!" He nodded like he knew exactly what I meant. So, I relaxed in the chair, feeling the cool metal of the clippers glide over my head. The sound of the buzzing clipper was almost soothing, like a lullaby. But then, something felt off. I opened one eye and caught a glimpse of the mirror... CHRIST!!!
I turned and stared at the barber, speechless. He was still nodding, as if he had just delivered the masterpiece of the century. "Oga na you talk say you want make your carving show na," he said with a grin, clearly proud of his work. And show they did-every single one, in all the wrong places! I opened my mouth to speak, he blow powder fuuuuu for my face so I swallowed powder and kept quiet immediately In my full life I have never felt so
