Perms & Conditions May Not Apply

today was another confirmation that south africa is indeed a poorly built time machine. i went to get another haircut. my last one grew out faster than usual... maybe it's the warm gentle rain mixed with the new fertilizer i've been using.

just down the block from bcp is a "gentleman's hair salon". so, with a name including "gentleman's" i half-expected nude women, so i was only half-disappointed when i found none. the place is four barber chairs with five male indian barbers. they took me the second i walked in.

this place had an 8.5x11 ("a4 sheet" here) printed out that read "WE SANITIZE - to government standards". this place did look like somewhere that might have inspired the government to enact standards. but like i've said, the only thing that comes standard around here is a lack of standards.

i was feeling brave going to this place rather than the overly posh "blue gel" i went to last time that just sucked but that bravery gave way to immense misgivings when the bloke two seats down finished his haircut as i sat down. y'see, instead of having hairdryers to blow the hair off you when you're done, here each station is equipped (yes, i said "equipped") with AN AIR HOSE like you'd use to fill up your car tires!! it gets the hair, and any spare contact lenses, out.

saleen started off by asking "how short? 2 or 3?" i said "1" and that was the last bit of instruction i had to give him. i'm in love with this place. raise your hand if (guys only) you're sick of having to cajole the stylist into cutting your hair short. "are you sure? that shows skin." reply: "skin?! showing on my head?! unacceptable! please glue any hair you cut off onto my face and ears."

this next part is only scary because it happened in lawless south africa. picture yourself in tijuana having this happen to you. after saleen puts down the scissors, he pulls a little something that looks like a razor blade out of a jar filled with, assumedly, blue disinfectant. now, i can't think of a single good reason to use a razor on me so i ask what it is that he's holding. instead of answering using words he chooses to pretend to shiv me in the shoulder with it. good thing i didn't ask what the blue stuff was.

the razor was used to shave me skin tight at all my transition areas; cutting individual hairs that, judging by the singular sounds they made, were SHOCKED to be getting cut. should i be embarrassed that i was terrified to have a razor blade close to my head? before answering, think of these three words: h.i.v.