A hair raising experience

Getting a haircut can be a tricky issue at the best of times – it may take several attempts to find a good salon, in a convenient area, at the right price and most importantly, building a relationship of trust with the stylist. It usually goes that you try somebody out for the first time with something simple like a trim, and if you’re happy with that, then you advance to having a more daring cut and eventually may try out a bolder colour. So having been here in Kampala for roughly 2 months the time had come to get a little snip. I’d had a few recommendations from friends, but being the creature of impulse that I am, I decided that I would have my hair chopped there and then. So I breeze confidently into Sparkles salon and demand a pedicure and a haircut. One of the ‘features’ of a Sparkles pedicure is a little foot and leg massage, which should send you into a state of relaxation, however, this guy decided to pummel the living daylights out of my poor legs and I would not be surprised if I had a bruise to show for it in the morning. I survived this little ordeal though and then went to wait to get a haircut. I was escorted to a seat and before I had even said what I wanted doing, this guy was brandishing a pair of scissors, with an evil glint in his eyes. I politely ask him if he can wash my hair – simple enough, you would think. At the sink, I am exposed to alternately scalding and freezing water and he then proceeds to tip what feels like an entire bottle of shampoo over my hair and washes it with as much care as though he was scrubbing the kitchen floor. After that, with clean but wild hair I am then taken back to my seat. Conveniently, my gym pass has a photo of me taken just after having my hair cut in Colombia, so I show him and explain that I would like it cut in pretty much the same way. He nods in an assuring manner picks up a comb. As my hair is such a tangled mess, this really hurts, so I ask him if he would mind if I combed it myself, which I do. He then grabs what looks like a a toilet roll and ties it round my neck, apparently to protect me from hair going down me. Then for the cut. And this is the really horrifying part. He starts chopping into the back, which naturally I can’t see. By the time he gets round to the side I notice his technique for cutting is a little bit unorthodox. Although I have never in my life attended a hairdressing course, I am aware that in order to cut layers you need to take sections of hair in a neat and even way and to use your fingers to help guide the scissors. No, no, no! He ‘sections’ my hair by taking random bunches and then just snipping in. I can’t stand any more of this, so I ask him how he learned to cut hair and he just ignores me. My next question is whether he took a course or if he learnt on the job and at this point he slams the comb and scissors down on the counter and says he doesn’t want to talk about it. This has now become too much for me, so I stand up, remove the overall and am fully prepared to walk out with half cut hair. I walk up to the counter and say I will pay for the pedicure but the hair experience was out of control. I am fully expecting for a full on debate, but to my surprise, the ladies on reception were in full sympathy with me. One of them told me that she just keeps her hair short and natural and is afraid to let anybody touch it – not really the best advert for a salon, but reassuring nonetheless. They were very kind and told me somebody else would be along shortly to sort it all out. So second time lucky (well it’s not perfect, but al least it’s even and nobody went wild and shaved my head). Having said that I have just realised that nobody has shown me the back of my head yet, so who knows what lurks behind. All I can say now is that I will not be returning for a repeat performance and that if that was a traumatic hair experience, then it has more than put me off the though of having my bikini line waxed there!