Free from the dreads
Look at that miserable sod. Look at him. That was the look on my face every-time I went to the
It was not fun. But hey, it was worth it not having to comb or anything. Also being the guy with dreads sort of gives you personality. You appear interesting. If people find out that I spend a lot of my time working with excel-they're impressed. The same way you're impressed when someone's dog can bring them their slippers on command.
Every trip to the mall, petrol station or bank comes with it a "Whagwan man" or "Rasta-ki boss" or "How's the album coming along?" . You suddenly feel familiar. You stand out from the crowd by giving them some short hand by which they can address you.
Oh he has dreads. He must be in the music industry, be some tech guy or he must date white women(That last one always puzzled me but then I went to Iguana in Kisementi and it all became clear what people were talking about. That place is like 50% skinny dread-locked chaps with bleached blondes. )
For the first few months as I grew them, many people asked me if I was going through some kind of midlife crisis or if I wanted to get a VISA or if I was trying to be cool in some way. Eventually I just became the guy with dreads. I got into the rhythm of having an explanation chambered every time I was in a business meeting at the bank or with some other serious institution that showed how serious it was by having their people wear coats and ties and where all the guys shaved their heads to about half an inch at most.
There was a sort of acceptance that it was just hair. But anytime I'd hint at cutting it,the reactions were almost as if I'd announced that I knew the secret to making report writing feel like an orgasm."Oh gosh finally!!". I think on some level the fact that it annoyed so many people made me keep the hair a little passed the one year I had originally given myself to upset my parents with my follicle adventures. I was the living embodiment of not giving a fuck.
No girl made me cut it. Not work. Not the silly local supermarket attendant who insists on making the same Bob Marley joke every-time he sees me ."Ah Rasta man, how are you? Have you got a woman yet-I don't see you crying so of-course no woman. Bambi Rasta" He says that shit every-time. He laughs every-time.
The thing that finally made me cut this was a combination of the shit getting heavy and to the point where I had to start wearing it in different styles and the hair stylist saying to me, "Your hair is quite long now. You have to start wearing a hair net to bed".
I was like" Get all the way the fuck outta here with that noise. A what? Zero percent cut it now!!".
So now I'm back to being the same ole person I used to be. The stories and quips I had chambered are no longer needed. The askaris no longer ask "Whagwan?" instead they say"Hello ssebo" with a glazed over look. People no longer assume I have a cool creative job . When I mention excel, they very appropriately get that look where they pray for a sudden Kony attack so I don't start telling them about this cool new formula I discovered the other day that's going to make me much more productive.
I now have to actually be interesting. I don't get underscored by the assumptions I once enjoyed. Fuck. I need to actually engage now. Now I see why this natural hair movement is picking steam. Sigh. I guess I will just have to pierce my eyebrow or something or get a tattoo that says tattoo on my forehead.
Today I went to the shops and anticipated the usual interaction and then nothing. He sort of looked at me and said"Ah, you changed?" I nodded remembering what I'd done. . He said "Which sister made you change like this now? Ah, Okay, 25K ssebo".
He called me Ssebo. SSebo. With no irony or comedy to it. I just became another chap in the shop.
What have I done?
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