Today is the day. The day I must subject myself to a ritual that feels less like self-care and more like survival. Yes, its barber day-It arrives each week like a cruel appointment with fate. A necessary evil. You see, I like to look sharp—a clean cut that declares, “This guy has his life together,” even when I’m hanging on by a thread. But as I sit here bracing myself for what’s to come, my mind drifts to a time, a place, a world so perfect it feels like a dream: the Nairobi barbershop experience.
In Nairobi, going to the barbershop wasn’t just an errand—it was an escape, a first-class trip to luxury. I’d glide into the pristine driveway in my German machine, its hum turning heads like I’d just arrived at the Grammys. The building itself was a masterpiece of glass and modern design, standing proudly like a temple dedicated to grooming excellence. As I stepped out, I swear I could hear the soft whispers of, “Karibu, mheshimiwa.”, “Kiongozi”, “Governor mtarajiwa” “Mzimbiting”!
The moment I opened the door, the atmosphere changed. It was like entering a sanctuary. Smooth jazz or old-school R&B flowed from hidden speakers, the perfect soundtrack to forget life’s troubles. Inside, everything was perfection. Leather chairs reclined at an angle so precise, NASA could’ve engineered them. The massive mirrors made you look so good you’d start contemplating a modeling career. Shelves stocked with premium products filled the air with scents that made you believe heaven had a signature fragrance. The lighting? Cinematic, like they’d consulted Spielberg himself. Even the towels were color-coordinated.
And then there were the hostesses. Not ordinary women—these were queens in casual disguise. They moved with such grace it felt like they were floating. Their beauty was striking but effortless, the kind of charm that could “toa nyoka pangoni.” With perfectly balanced features and radiant smiles, they made you feel like royalty simply by acknowledging your existence. They paraded around like they were advertising a fragrance called “Luxury Redefined.”
A hostess would glide over and greet me with a soft, knowing smile. “Utakunywa nini, boss? Tuko na chai, kahawa, maji… hata wine.” And just as I started to mumble an answer, she’d tilt her head slightly, adding, “Hata whiskey pia iko.” Moments later, my drink of choice would appear, served with such precision and care that I half-expected her to have a butler assist her. Her perfectly manicured hands would deliver it with a quiet elegance, leaving me convinced she’d been sent by angels to remind me I wasn’t worthy.
When it came to cutting my hair, I had two options: José or Vina—whoever was free. But these weren’t just barbers with clippers; they were true artisans, visionaries in their craft. My head was their “shamba,” and they tended to it with the precision and care of master farmers during planting season. Every stroke of their clippers was deliberate, smooth, almost poetic, as if they were composing a symphony on my scalp. They knew every ridge and contour of my head like a cartographer charting undiscovered lands. By the time they were done, I didn’t just look good—I looked like a CEO about to close a billion-dollar deal.
But the experience didn’t end there. The hostess would lead me to the hair-washing station, where the true magic happened. My head would rest gently in her hands, and she’d cradle juu ya kifua yake like I was her newborn, her hands working through my hair with a gentleness that could melt glaciers. The warm water, the lather, the massage—it was divine. I’d often drift off, waking up only when she applied a cooling aftershave that felt like a soft breeze from paradise. You see, it wasn’t just a massage, it was séance, summoning every ounce of tension from my body and sending it fleeing into abyss. Bwana, I was royalty, a celestial being cradled by the hands of destiny. And all this? For just Kes 500 plus an optional tip here and there! As we would say; Maisha ulaya! But little did I know……..
Now let me tell you about my reality here. I walk into the local barbershop, the door creaks as I enter, and I’m hit by a wave of LOUD dancehall music, shaking the walls like a nightclub. I mean loud. The kind that shakes your ribcage and makes you question all your life decisions. The second thing? The smell of cannabis smoke—a suffocating cloud that’s as much a part of the barbershop as the clippers. mixed with sweat and a hint of despair.
The barbers? Wooi! One is wearing trousers sagging so low you can almost see his ancestry. Another sports wild dreadlocks that look ready to grab the clippers and cut my hair themselves. A third wears sunglasses indoors, nodding like a DJ in a poorly lit club. They are all chilling, seated like they’re on vacation. One of them acknowledges me with a lazy “Wagwan.” No “Karibu,” no smile, just “Wagwan”while he continues arguing loudly in Patois with his friends. “Bomboclaat! Mi nuh agree! Di man affi sort di ting!” Meanwhile, I’m there, standing awkwardly like a lost tourist in Babylon.
Eventually, my barber saunters over, clippers in hand, smelling like he just bathed in a cloud of cannabis. He starts cutting my hair mid-conversation. “Mi seh! Di bwoy dem chat too much!” His friends laugh uproariously as I sit silently, praying he doesn’t give me a bald patch. Halfway through, he stops. Yes, stops. As a true mbogaman, he puts down the clippers, heads outside for what I can only describe as his “spiritual recharge”, as he takes a long, slow puff of his “motivational herb” orMboga.
He returns ten minutes later, exhaling smoke like a fire-breathing dragon, and resumes cutting as if nothing happened. A few minutes later, he pauses again—this time to shout at someone across the room. By now, I’ve resigned myself to fate.
An hour later, my haircut is complete. He slaps disinfectant on my scalp like he’s angry at it, mumbles “Yuh good,” and that’s it. No massage, no drink, not even a nod of appreciation. I hand him $50 (yes, fifty dollars!) and walk out feeling violated.
Oh, Nairobi, how I long for your elegance, your hostesses with their “utakunywa nini” kindness, and your barbers who treated every haircut like art. Here, it’s survival of the fittest. But one day—one day—I’ll return to your soothing music, and heavenly massages. Until then, I’ll endure this smoky madness, clutching tightly to the memory of what a barbershop should truly be.
Bomboclaaaaaat!
