The Hairdresser of Harare

by Tendai Huchu

  The

  Hairdresser

  of Harare

  Uncorrected proof

  Not for resale

  The

  Hairdresser

  of Harare

  Tendai Huchu

  FREIGHT

  BOOKS

  First published by Weaver Press, Zimbabwe 2010

  This edition first published in the UK, March 2013

  Freight Books

  49-53 Virginia Street

  Glasgow, G1 1TS

  www.freightbooks.co.uk

  Copyright © Tendai Huchu 2013

  The moral right of Tendai Huchu to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or any information storage or retrieval system, without either prior permission in writing from the publisher or by licence, permitting restricted copying. In the United Kingdom such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London W1P 0LP.

  All the characters in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

  A CIP catalogue reference for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978-1-908754-11-0

  eISBN 978-1-908754-18-9

  Typeset by Freight in Plantin

  Printed and bound by Bell and Bain, Glasgow

  Tendai Huchu was born in Bindura, Zimbabwe. He has a great love for literature, and currently lives in Edinburgh, Scotland. www.tendaihuchu.com

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Ninteen

  Twenty

  Twenty One

  Twenty Two

  Twenty Three

  Twenty Four

  Twenty Five

  Twenty Six

  Twenty Seven

  Twenty Eight

  Twenty Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty One

  Thirty Two

  Thirty Three

  Thirty Four

  Thirty Five

  Thirty Six

  Thirty Seven

  Thirty Eight

  Thirty Nine

  Fourty

  One

  I knew there was something not quite right about Dumi the very first time I ever laid eyes on him. The problem was, I just couldn’t tell what it was. Thank God for that.

  There was a time when I was reputed to be the best hairdresser in Harare, which meant the best in the whole country. Amai Ndoro was the fussiest customer to ever grace a salon and she would not let any ordinary kiya-kiya touch her hair. Having sampled all the salons in Harare — and rejected them all — she settled on ours. The fussiest customer was also the largest motor mouth and gossip-monger. Once she was our client, we never needed to advertise again, as long as we kept her happy. That was my job and why Mrs Khumalo paid me the highest wage.

  Khumalo Hair and Beauty Treatment Salon was in the Avenues, a short walking distance from the city centre. We did hair but never any beauty treatments. In any case I doubt any of us knew how to. There was a rusty metal sign painted white with black lettering on the front gate that pointed to our establishment. The rust, accumulated over several rainy seasons, had eaten away so much of the sign that only Khu—l-, a drawing of a lady with a huge afro and an arrow still showed. Our customers didn’t need it, the directions were simple.

  ‘Go up from Harare Gardens, skip two roads, take a left, skip another road and look for the blue house on your right, not the green one, and you’re there.’ You’d have to be a nincompoop to miss it.

  The front section of the house, which once served as a lounge, was converted into an internet café with a dozen or so computers. You could hear the fans humming and the shriek of the dialler from the pavement across the road. Their prices weren’t too bad either, compared to those at Eastgate or Ximex Mall. The rest of the main house was used by the Khumalo family, all thirteen of them.

  Our salon was at the back in what used to be the boy’s kaya, servant’s quarters. From across the yard, the fragrant aroma of relaxers, dyes, shampoos and a dozen other chemicals hit you. The smell merged with the dust from the driveway and left something in your nostrils that you couldn’t shake off until the next time you caught a cold.

  The building had been crudely extended. A wall had been knocked down to the left and concrete blocks hastily laid to add another seven metres. Such architectural genius had left us with a hybrid building, the likes of which you could only find if you looked hard. The right of the building was constructed of proper burnt bricks, professionally built in every respect. You could see the dividing line where the cheap concrete blocks had been used. Aesthetics aside, we were all grateful for the accommodation, though it rattled a little during heavy storms.

  Each morning I was greeted by Agnes with, ‘Sisi Vimbai, you’re late again. Customers are waiting.’ Mrs Khumalo’s eldest daughter held the keys and opened shop.

  I would make a sound like ‘Nxii’ with my lips and walk in without greeting the cow. I hated her, she hated me twice as much and, so long as mummy wasn’t in, there was no need to pretend otherwise. Everyone knew I was the goose that laid the golden eggs. If I left, half the customers would follow me. In any case, letting them wait made them realise how lucky they were to be served at all, so I was actually doing the business a favour. There were three other hairdressers; Memory, Patricia and Yolanda plus Charlie Boy, our barber, who always came in smelling of Chibuku. The salon was my personal fiefdom and I was queen bee. I would throw my handbag on the floor underneath the cashier’s desk and boil myself a cup of tea.

  ‘There is a new style I want you to do for me.’ How often have I heard these words, usually followed by a folded picture torn from some glossy American magazine.

  ‘Nxii, I can do that easily, it’s just the style for you!’ I always indulged them with a white lie.

  There’s only one secret to being a successful hairdresser and I’ve never withheld it from anyone. ‘Your client should leave the salon feeling like a white woman.’ Not coloured, not Indian, not Chinese. I have told this to everyone who’s ever asked me and what they all want to know is how d’you make someone feel like a white woman? Sigh, yawn, scratch.

  The answer is simple, ‘Whiteness is a state of mind’.

  Mrs Khumalo understands this and that’s why she would never fire me. The other girls don’t understand it and that’s why Patricia was fired. The stupid girl got pregnant less than six months into the job, so, of course, Mrs K. had no choice. Hairdressers are there to sell an image and that image is not pushing a football in your belly. Suddenly we had a vacancy. Little did I know that this small twist of fate would cost me my crown.

  Two

  The grapevine is an amazing thing. Patricia had only been sacked for two days but the phone was already ringing off the hook. Each caller had somehow heard that we had a vacancy and they were ready to start straight away. I must have answered a dozen calls before I refused to take another one. Agnes sat in a corner reading a magazine. She only ever worked when her mother was in.

  I was doing a perm for a fat customer when the phone rang again.

  ‘You’re d
oing nothing, can you answer the phone?’ I shouted. If she’d been my daughter, I would have slapped her.

  She got up slowly and went to the desk.

  ‘Helloow,’ she said like a person on a toilet, but the caller had already hung up.

  ‘Sit by the phone and write all their names and details into that exercise book.’ This girl was so lazy, you had to spell everything out.

  ‘Don’t you tell me what to do! You’re just a worker. One day you’re going to get fired too and I’ll be answering calls for your job.’

  ‘Stupid girl, if I go your mother will be out of business,’ was what I wanted to say, but we had customers. My ugly one wriggled uncomfortably. I could tell she was not feeling white yet, but I was so angry I couldn’t have cared less.

  Wearing a green Nigerian bou bou, which hugged the contours of her amply fed body, Mrs Khumalo came in later that day kicking the dust off her feet. The government had given her a few hectares on a farm thirty kilometres down the Mazowe Road so she spent a good amount of her time there. It was where Mr Khumalo now lived permanently, since they’d also been given the farm manager’s house.

  ‘Agnes, get me a glass of water.’ Her high-pitched voice echoed round the room. Whenever she spoke, it was so loudly that I assumed she thought we were all deaf. She drank the water in one gulp and placed the glass on the desk. Behind her puffed eyelids, her tiny eyes surveyed the salon and seemed disappointed that there weren’t more customers in the queue.

  ‘Makadini henyu, Mrs Khumalo?’ my fat customer said.

  ‘Matilda, I heard you’d left us for Easy Touch Salon.’ Mrs K. never forgot any of her customers’ names, a trait that I wished I shared.

  ‘They’re cheaper but they don’t know what they’re doing,’ Fat Matilda answered.

  ‘Everyone who goes there comes back. I hear horror stories about people’s hair snapping off.’ It was an exaggeration, but destroying a competitor’s reputation was all part of the game. Easy Touch, in turn, spread a rumour that we were wenches who wanted to steal our customers’ husbands. It must have scared some women off because we were all beautiful except for Agnes who shared her mother’s toadyish shape. Neither mother nor daughter had necks. Shame.

  It was left to me to tell Mrs Khumalo about the calls we’d been getting for the vacancy. This was something else I admired about her. Had it been another person, they would have looked for a relative to fill the position, but not Mrs Khumalo. She wanted the best people working for her.

  I put Fatty in the dryer in the centre of the room for her perm to set before I could take the rollers out. One wall of the salon had the wash-basins, the other chairs and a third side was reserved for Charlie Boy and his male customers. The dryers were placed in the centre because we didn’t have anywhere else to put them. The fourth wall had shelves carrying our stocks, and a large mirror.

  ‘Are any of these girls who’ve phoned professionals?’

  I should have used cotton wool to plug my ears.

  ‘I know two of them personally.’

  ‘Which ones?’

  I hesitated. I didn’t want to recommend someone who turned out to be useless, but if I’d known what was to come I would have pushed for any one of them, useless or not.

  A man walked up the drive. The sound of his feet crunched on the pebbles. He hesitantly read the sign to see if he was at the right place.

  ‘Is this Mrs Khumalo’s hair salon?’

  ‘Couldn’t you read the sign?’ Agnes called out. We all laughed like a pack of hyenas. Charlie Boy came to the front, certain he had a customer. I don’t know why he was kept on. Very few men came in for a haircut or shave so the barbershop was hardly profitable.

  ‘Come in sonny, I will sort that hair of yours out in no time,’ Charlie Boy quipped.

  The man had an afro. I would have been sad to see it shaved off. Stylish and well kempt, it glistened in the sun, a sure sign that he was using oils. He was about twenty-two with a well-proportioned boyish physique, pleasing to the eye. The black trousers and shortsleeved white shirt made him look like a junior clerk in the civil service.

  ‘I’ve come to see Mrs Khumalo.’ His voice was soft yet clear.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked.

  He took a timid step and stopped at the doorway to look around the salon and its many American hairstyle posters that we’d pinned on the walls. His searching eyes studied everything from our stocks to the seats. I took fatty Matilda out from under the dryer and led her to the cash desk. The young man could not take his eyes off her. Men want their women big and round, mutefetefe. Her voluptuous buttocks bounced around as if to mock me.

  ‘I said, ‘What do you want?’’ Mrs Khumalo snapped him out of his trance.

  ‘I heard that you had a vacancy.’

  ‘So you want something for your sister or cousin maybe. Tell me her name and her qualifications.’

  ‘I need the job myself.’

  Agnes let out a squeak, and I began to laugh.

  ‘Young man, d’you think I am looking for a garden-boy? I want a hairdresser.’ Mrs Khumalo laughed. She sounded like a pig, much like her daughter. The young man turned as if to go.

  ‘I can do the job, Mrs Khumalo, if you give me a chance.’

  ‘Don’t be stupid. We mustn’t waste each other’s time. Go away.’ If you weren’t putting money into her till, Mrs K. had no reason to be nice to you. These were difficult times and jobs were scarce but I’d never thought that men might try to get a woman’s job. A male hairdresser, who’d ever heard of such a thing? But instead of leaving, the young man stepped into the shop towards Matilda, who was counting out her money. She grasped her handbag tightly between her breasts. The man flicked her hair with his hand.

  ‘Hey, what do you think you’re doing?’ Charlie Boy shouted. Even an unlikely male figure can be some protection against Harare’s bold thieves.

  ‘Trust me, sister. This is your chance to help me,’ the man said, his voice as soft as running water. ‘Your hair was set beautifully, but the style she’s given you is not for you.’ He picked up a fine-toothed comb from the table and ran it through her hair. ‘You have a round face, so instead of these curls we need to layer it so that it flows with the smooth contours of your face.’ He worked briskly with his comb, then took a pair of scissors to trim the ends.

  My heart was pounding with rage. It had taken me an hour and a half to do that style and he dared to say that I’d got it wrong. The customer is always king. I’d done the style she asked for.

  ‘Hey you…’ Charlie Boy moved forward.

  ‘No, please let him finish, Mrs Khumalo,’ Matilda said.

  Our boss was silent as she watched him with a quiet fascination. If I hadn’t known her better, I would have said she seemed amused. The stranger worked quickly like an artist working on a living sculpture. His long slender fingers primed the hair and everyone’s eyes were focused on him. A few customers stepped out from under their dryers to watch him work.

  Five minutes later he was finished. He put his hands on Matilda’s shoulders and made her look in the mirror. She blinked. He picked up a mirror so that she could see the back of her head as well.

  ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

  ‘Sweet Jesus, I look like Naomi Campbell.’ Matilda’s body was trembling with excitement.

  ‘You see what I meant about the layers.’

  ‘This is wonderful. Please give me your phone number.’

  That is when Mrs Khumalo stepped in. She’d seen enough. She gently took Matilda by the hand and ushered her to the door. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll find him here next time you come.’

  The young man said that his name was Dumisani. Mrs Khumalo didn’t care. She took his details and told him that he was to start work the following Monday.

  Three

  The house that I lived in was far bigger than anything I could have dreamt of. It stood in Eastlea, a low-density suburb, home to the middle classes, where people like me passed through c
arrying large baskets on our heads. A neighbourhood with an English name is a good neighbourhood. There are exceptions to the rule of course like Highfields or Hatcliffe, high-density areas. So to make the distinction we Shonarized these names: Highfields became Highfiridzi; Hatcliffe was Hatikirifi.

  It was natural and instinctive that when we pronounced the names of really plush neighbourhoods, like Borrowdale, with its sprawling mansions, we spoke in a nasal tone to try and sound more English.

  I had Tony Blair to thank for living in Eastlea in my elder brother’s house. A four-bedroomed bungalow with a red roof set on an acre of land. The lawn was slowly turning into desert but for the weeds, which had taken over. The flower-beds, which once boasted many foreign botanical specimens, were also wilting. Only sturdy geraniums and self-seeding marigolds remained, giving some colour. A Durawall surrounded the property and shielded our shameful garden from prying eyes.

  The backyard was a different story. There we had eight beds of cultivated vegetables; rape and tomatoes, onions and carrots, cabbages and pumpkins. There was a guava tree in the corner by the servant’s quarters. The peach tree had long since died and been used for firewood. A stump remained as a sort of inanimate memorial. One day we would uproot it and burn it too.

  When I reached home, my daughter Chiwoniso was red, the same colour as the soil in this part of town. Together with her little school friends she was wallowing in mud.

  ‘Get out of there all of you!’ I shouted.

  ‘Mama!’ they said in unison and came speeding towards me.

  ‘Get away from me.’

  I was wearing a white dress. I don’t know what’s wrong with kids these days. They don’t listen. They mobbed me anyway and soon I was looking like them in my soiled dress. If only they knew how hard it was to wash out soil stains. I took some sweets from my bag and gave them two each. My heart warmed when they clapped their hands to thank me.