There is something I need to say about barbers… I have also come to the conclusion that I cannot say something in a few words… Here is another series.
Now the first barber I must mention, and honestly the one without whom this entire story would collapse before it even begins, is my mother. My mother was my first barber. Before the stage barbers. Before the military barbers who shaved people like they were clearing bushes for a road construction project. Before the modern barber shops with fancy names, loud music, suspiciously overconfident barbers, and mirrors that somehow convince every man he looks like a celebrity for at least three minutes. Before all of that, there was my mother standing over me with a pair of scissors and the confidence of a woman raising children while simultaneously figuring life out in real time.
And for the longest time, I honestly did not know there was a problem. To me, hair being cut was hair being cut. The objective had been achieved. We were not running a fashion show in Kirinyaga. We were surviving. As long as my hair became shorter and I could go back to my Lady Bird Series: You know… Tom Thumb and Snow White & the Seven Dwarfs, life continued normally. But then childhood did what childhood always does. It introduced comparison into the equation. I began noticing that there were boys who looked… different. Sharper. Cleaner. More aerodynamic. Their haircuts looked intentional.
Now let me be careful here because this is where adulthood forces you to revisit your childhood memories with grace. Back then, of course, I thought the issue was my mother’s barbering skills. Today, as a parent myself, I know better. Parents are improvising most of the time. Nobody arrives with a manual. You are raising children while still healing from your own childhood, still trying to pay bills, still trying to understand yourself, still trying to become an adult while little humans are calling you “mum” and “dad” with absolute confidence that you know what you are doing. Looking back now, I do not see failure in those moments. I see love trying its best with the information and resources available at the time.
But children are not theologians or philosophers. Children are social creatures. Their entire economic system runs on acceptance. And unfortunately for me, the market had decided that haircuts done with scissors carried a certain reputation. There was a texture scissors used to leave behind. A geography. A topography. Little ridges and uneven territories that became visible especially after a few days when the hair started growing back unevenly. Now this one was enough to make you the most unpopular kid in school. Bullying for days. The funny thing is, years later, grown men would deliberately shave styles that almost resemble the same rough patterns we suffered from accidentally. Human beings are fascinating. Give something enough years and enough confidence and suddenly it becomes fashion.
Now within the ecosystem of small-town Kenyan life, even among estate kids, there were levels. There were the children from the slightly more polished neighborhoods. Not rich-rich. Nobody in our understanding at the time was truly rich. But there were children who carried themselves with the confidence of people who used fabric softener consistently. Their sweaters looked newer. They had magazines and comic books. Nancy Drew and the Hardy boys as extras versus us and our Moses in Trouble and Moses and Mildred gracing our home libraries. Their shoes made less noise while walking. Their hairlines looked professionally negotiated. And somewhere in the silent politics of childhood, some of us understood very early that we belonged to the less glamorous side of town life.
Of course now, older and wiser, I realize there were probably other children looking at us and thinking we were the privileged ones. That is the thing about life. Everyone thinks somebody else had it easier.
But despite all the teasing and the occasional embarrassment, I genuinely look back at those moments warmly now. Because somewhere between those uneven haircuts and those childish insecurities was a mother caring for her son in the most practical way she knew how. And I think that is what age does to you. It rearranges your memories. It removes bitterness from moments you once misunderstood. It gives context where emotion once existed alone. = Maturity.
I cannot even remember the exact day my mother retired from barber duty. It happened quietly, without ceremony. One moment she was cutting my hair at home, and the next moment I was accompanying my father to barber shops. And that was another world entirely. Kenyan barber shops are not just grooming spaces. They are embassies of male behavior. They are tiny republics of unsolicited opinions. Every barber shop has at least one man discussing politics as if the president personally consults him before making national decisions. There is always somebody giving relationship advice despite clear evidence his own life is collapsing. Then there is the football banter! There is always a radio either playing reggae, rhumba, Lingala, gospel music, or football analysis loud enough to become part of the haircut itself.
I remember watching my father get his hair trimmed carefully, intentionally leaving quite a lot behind. He never seemed interested in the fully shaved look many preferred back then. Looking back, I suspect that may have quietly shaped my own appreciation for Afro hair later in life. Funny how fathers influence sons without speeches. Sometimes they simply exist consistently and unknowingly pass down tastes, habits, and mannerisms. You would be shocked that even the teaching DNA is passed down from my father.
But if there is one thing barber shops taught me very early, it is that a haircut is never just a haircut. A barber touches your confidence before he touches your head. A good barber can repair your week. A bad barber can ruin family photos, self-esteem, and possibly future opportunities. There are heartbreaks in this life people rarely discuss publicly. A barber pushing your hairline too far back is one of them… or…. Or… those ones who plant a whole plantation of bumps in a second.
And this was only the beginning. At this point in my life, I had not yet encountered high school barbers who shaved students with the emotional sensitivity of prison wardens. I had not yet met military barbers who treated individuality like a national security threat – one scratch fits all. I had not yet entered the complicated adult world of loyalty to specific barbers, where you travel unreasonable distances because one man somewhere understands the architecture of your head better than anybody else.
That season was still ahead of me. And trust me, the stories only become stranger from here…
Another story from a man still under construction
Grace & Peace ✌️