Cotton balls for the lonely floor

davin makokha

Even as the sun beats down on me relentlessly, I refuse to give in to the heat and enter one of the many identical barber shops I keep walking past. They all look the same. Thin slightly faded wallpaper, one huge mirror covering half a wall (this would be impressive if they weren’t all so small), two leather chairs and calendars graced by various black celebrities spotting different haircuts. All I needed was two seconds to dismiss every barber shop I’ve refused to set foot in. I don’t want the cleanest shop, or the prettiest wallpaper. I don’t care if it’s Jamie Foxx, Obama or Will Smith on the calendars. What I need is really simple. I’m about to give up when I finally see it. The perfect barber shop for me. Empty, save for the barber and his tools of trade. I have no idea how I will react to seeing my hair fall to the floor for the first time and if for some reason my tears betray me, I’d rather the audience be limited.

The barber points to a black leather chair with tiny wheels facing a mirror. As I sit I allow myself one final glance at my hair. He wraps a clean white towel around my shoulders and asks me what I want. If I wasn’t pre-mourning my hair I’d giggle a little or at least blow air through my nose. What I want is to have the choice to keep my hair. What I want is to magically go back in time and stop myself from putting relaxer in my hair. I can’t be angry with the kinyozi for his phrasing. He couldn’t possibly have known that relaxing my hair for boarding school wouldn’t have made it any easier to take care of. What I’m here for, what I have been instructed to do, is trim my hair down to almost nothing. As I tell him “trim it and leave only a little bit” I can't help but notice how alien my voice sounds. I can feel the familiar sting of sadness starting to tap at my throat. The moment the words leave my lips I bite the flesh inside my cheeks and study my hands in my lap like my life depends on it. There are only so many knuckles and scars to look at but I’m determined to not raise my eyes until I have to.

I expected the razor to sound more awful. As my hair falls to the floor I try to imagine the Kinyozi’s face. Scrunched up in concentration or at ease performing the task mindlessly due to years of performing similar motions? The hair on the floor for now feels like a stranger’s. Too smooth, too straight, too silky. The only thing that looks familiar is the colour. So dark it puts the night and coal to shame. It’s a point of pride at this point. I hear the tinges of jealousy mixed in with admiration every time someone says “your hair is so black!” I have something desirable. People can look at me and find something attractive about me. “Is that short enough?” the barber pulls me back to reality. I am scared scared a boy will be staring back at me when I glance in the mirror. Afraid that without my hair as a shield, a distraction, my ugliness will finally be brought to everyone’s attention. But the barber doesn’t know all that and that somehow makes looking in the mirror easier. He stopped at the growth so there’s a mini afro left. My features are more prominent in a way that makes me want to curse whoever invented mirrors. I hope they are in the hotter tiers of hell. The mini afro still won’t do. “Shave off a bit more.” This time I watch. I want to say goodbye. This is hair I recognise. It's mine. I have watched hair dressers bite their lip before they even touch it and felt them warm up to it. It falls like tiny black cotton balls and I have to go back to biting the insides of my cheeks before I request to have them bagged so I can take them home. I hate my face, I hate my head, I hate how powerless I feel and I despise the entire world. When the barber is done cleaning up my head I press his money into his hand, thank him because it’s not really his fault I have turned into this ugly creature and practically flee his shop.

Logically, I know nobody cares about anyone in the streets. Unfortunately for me, however, my skin cannot stop tingling. I feel exposed and even though I am trying to convince myself otherwise, I cannot shake the feeling that everyone is staring and whispering around me. I feel that way for months. At school with other students, in church, at the market… Every time I have to go back to the barber I mourn. I grieve the loss of my beauty. My heart suffers over the thought that other girls do not consider me one of their own anymore. I torture myself over the loss of my shield. There is nothing to frame my face with. My veil is gone, leaving me feeling vulnerable and exposed. Until now my identity has been tied with my hair. Having hair made me feel like I had a right to claim femininity. I may not have been good at taking care of it but at least having it made me less awkward among girls. Without it I have very few things left to grasp at my femininity. I dwarf nearly every girl my age and my face is too sour. In the future it will be just hair but for now I grieve until I am empty.

By the time I can grow my hair again I have given up on being seen as feminine. Other than the fact that it takes too much to feel woman enough, I have forced myself to look at my face in the mirror so much I have decided it’s enough that I am just me for now and each day after. My hair’s blackness is at the bottom of my priorities as I experiment with different colours. At first, I was scared of losing my hair again but I figured then I could grow it back. Now that I have the choice I feel I could cut it without having to fight down tears. I like my bushy decent-sized afro but I have become a person who can live without it thanks to the many times I allowed myself to grieve. Whatever version of my mane I have to live with, I am ready for.

about the author

Davin writes fiction and non-fiction drawing from Queer and African experiences featuring thought provoking anecdotes, dazzling multi-cultural references, and strong relationships. She promises to pull heart strings, offer a few laughs, and share tidbits of relatable experiences.