Nothing prepares you for military barbers. Not your childhood barber. Not the old man at the shopping center who believes that bicycle oil will sort out the bumps after a bad shave. Not even the aggressive bus stop barbers who cut your skin alongside your hair shaving as if they are rebooting your operating system. They probably know you will never return.
Military barbers belong to an entirely different category of human beings. Now if you have read the military chronicles before, then perhaps you remember me mentioning Safiya, a lady of Somali lineage. To this day, I still believe Safiya had some of the most remarkable hair I had ever seen in my life up-to that point. Long, thick, dark hair flowing almost all the way to her waist. The kind of hair shampoo advertisements travel trying to find. The kind of hair that looked like it had never experienced hardship, confusion, or split ends. It was majestic.
And naturally, during those early days in boot camp, the instructors enjoyed reminding everyone that the hair was going. “Your hair will disappear!” “Hii urembo yote naenda!” they would shout while smiling the smile of people who derive joy from emotional damage.
But personally, I was unshaken. By the time I was reporting to the barracks, I had already mentally separated myself from my afro. I had made peace with sacrifice. I was ready. Motivated. Fully committed. At that point, nothing could have convinced me to turn back home because of hair. The military had already consumed my imagination long before it consumed my hairstyle.
So for the first couple of weeks, the threats about shaving felt almost humorous. kwani iko nini!!! We were busy with documentation, medical checks, orientation, uniforms, confusion, exhaustion, and trying to understand why every instruction in the military sounded angry even when asking simple questions. (More of these Military Stories here)
Then one day the shaving actually began. My goodness. I met Safiya somewhere on the pass out grounds shortly afterward and genuinely failed to recognize her. The magnificent waterfall of hair was gone. Completely gone. What remained was a clean scalp and the non ending, stunned expression of somebody who had just discovered that patriotism can become very personal very quickly.
Honestly, for a brief moment, I almost wanted to ask her why she joined the military in the first place. Surely there were gentler careers available. Banking perhaps. Teaching. Maybe diplomacy. Something that would allow the hair to coexist peacefully with ambition. Or nursing, But then again, who was I to question another person’s calling?
And that is when something shifted psychologically inside me. From that point onward, I think we all understood a silent truth about military life: once you enter those gates, certain things stop belonging to you. Your time is no longer yours. Your comfort is no longer yours. Even your hair is no longer yours. You belong to the government now. The first actual military shave I experienced remains one of the most confusing events as a recruit.
We were assembled under some tree shades where the “barber shop” had been prepared. But the moment I arrived, I knew immediately this was not going to be a normal shaving experience. There were no mirrors, no posters of stylish fades, no aftershave displays, no music. No Kileleshwa ambience. Just a few plastic chairs, some shaving machines, and one suspicious jerrycan of methylated spirit sitting nearby.
That was when I understood, there is a difference between processing and grooming. The barbers themselves carried a very particular energy. The same energy construction workers receive from people who assume that because you work hard physically, you must not require gentleness. The same way some people see soldiers and assume they are emotionally made of timber and engine oil.
These barbers approached us with that exact mentality. You were not customers. You were tasks. I watched recruits ahead of me attempting negotiations.
“Bakisha kiasi hapo juu…” “Usinishave kabisa…” “Cheza na karate kiasi, crew cut hivi…” The barbers would respond, “Hio haikubaliki..” Rono would try to say that they say others in the compound shaved with a crew cut. And the response would be nastier. “Wewe ni kurutu ama Afande?, Kurutu hakuna style!!!”
The barber would ignore all pleas of fancy shaves. Thinking about it, who were we trying to appease with fancy styles anyway? In fact, every military barber seemed to have one signature move. Before you could even finish explaining yourself, the machine would start right at the forehead and carve one aggressive path straight through the middle of your hair like a government road cutting across grabbed land.
That first line communicated everything: “This conversation is over.” There were no guards. No gauges. No fade discussions. No style references. Nobody asked what you wanted because what you wanted had officially become irrelevant.
When my turn came, I sat down trying to maintain some remaining dignity. The machine touched my forehead and before I could process what was happening, half my identity was already on the ground. Hair disappeared at alarming speed. The man shaved with the urgency of somebody late for another appointment.
Then came the methylated spirit.
Ladies and gentlemen, military barbers do not apply spirit. They baptize you into suffering. The man poured what felt like fire directly onto my freshly shaved scalp. My soul briefly exited my body. Before I could recover, he slapped the back of my head firmly, not violently, just with enough force to remind me that civilian softness was ending and announced that I was done.
No mirror, zero inspection, no ushers to show you to the head washing sink, no masseuse to do justice to your neck and shoulders. You simply stood up and the breeze would do its thing, the breeze never lies. The moment cold air touched my newly exposed scalp, I knew two things immediately. First, yes, I had definitely been shaved. Second, I no longer looked like a cultured young man with afro ambitions. I looked like a soldier. Ready for mud, barbed wire, confusion, and national duty.
Later on, I would think back to Safiya and finally understand the logic behind all of it. There is simply no practical way to crawl under barbed wire, sleep in the dirt, survive field exercises, and maintain waist-length hair that belongs in a beauty pageant. Military life is designed to remove excess. And hair, unfortunately, counts as excess. Still, somewhere deep inside my freshly shaved military skull, my love for hair remained alive.
I knew one day, somehow, somewhere beyond the shouting instructors and ruthless barbers, I would return to my afro again. Because some things leave your head without ever leaving your heart. Hair is the most obvious of them & probably why it grows again, well unless baldness is already doing its thing…