The Hairdresser of Harare

by Tendai Huchu

  ‘What do you think?’ Mrs Ncube asked.

  ‘Of what?’ I said slowly, worried that they might be disappointed by my lack of enthusiasm.

  ‘Your new hairdresser’s salon.’

  I opened my mouth but no sound came out. If Dumi had not gripped my arms, I’m sure I would have fainted. The Ncubes were beaming. People on the pavement had stopped to look at us. I fanned myself, tears in my eyes and my lips moving. I wanted to express my gratitude but couldn’t find the right words. The pride on all their faces told me that they knew exactly how I felt.

  ‘What are you going to call it?’ asked Michelle.

  Twenty nine

  Sam Levy’s Village in Borrowdale is Harare’s premier shopping centre. It was built with a certain sense of nostalgia for a small English town. Its two main rivals, Eastgate and Westgate, were newer but they lacked its character. Eastgate was located in the city centre, a place avoided by the new élite; Westgate with its Mediterranean aura failed to charm a nation for whom there was a passion for all things British and for whom English meant everything that was excellent in life.

  Sam Levy’s was built around a pedestrian thoroughfare with two rows of brown-bricked buildings with high-pitched roofs that gave them a sort of quaint fairy-tale feel. The only thing that did not have a British feel were the palm trees that lined the walkways, but no one seemed to mind. In any case, why shouldn’t palm trees be British? The clock tower in the centre of the thoroughfare always told the right time, two hours ahead of GMT. Politicians mouthed anti-English rhetoric on TV by day and by night they came to shop at Sam Levy’s Village because it was what they liked. During Operation Murambatsvina, when thousands of structures were declared illegal and arbitrarily demolished, Sam Levy’s was discovered to have been built without proper planning permission. There was some talk about demolishing the whole structure, but how could they, since it provided a comfort zone for the new élite, an imaginary place of civilisation? So the plans to pull it down were quietly shelved. No doubt money changed hands as well, but it was probably the only ‘illegal’ structure to survive in the entire city.

  There was not a single shred of litter to be seen on the pavements. Cleaners walked idly round the centre, their only task being to sweep up leaves and other debris because no one in their right mind would dare drop litter on such pristine pavements.

  Mrs Khumalo did not seem surprised when I told her that I was quitting to start my own business. She half advised and half discouraged me, saying the economy was not doing well and these times were very difficult to run a business.

  Her parting shot was, ‘When you fail… Sorry. If you fail, know that there will always be a job for a hairdresser of your calibre here.’ Yolanda secretly promised to come and work for me, once I was up and running. Charlie Boy was disappointed when I told him we had no plans for a barber. The one person that I really wanted with me was Dumi, who was rather vague, but said that he would hand in his notice before too long. I felt he was procrastinating but decided it was because he wanted me to stand on my own feet first.

  I did not have the money to fit the shop out and buy the equipment I needed but Mr and Mrs Ncube had already worked that out for me.

  ‘We’ve already covered your rent for the first quarter of the year, that’s your gift. Buy all the equipment and products you need and you can return the loan interest-free in two years’ time.’ It was more than a generous offer because in two years whatever amount he gave me now in Zim dollars would be less than worthless, and he didn’t suggest we work out a price in hard currency. I figured that his gesture was calculated to ensure that my pride was not harmed. ‘It was tough for me when I started out in business and I wish someone had been there to guide me. If ever there is anything you need, do not hesitate to call on me. We are family.’

  I wanted the place open before Christmas and spent the first month with shop-fitters laying out the interior. It was harder work than I’d imagined. Michelle became my chauffeur and drove me to incessant appointments. We bought quality chairs, dryers and equipment. When the work was finished my salon was a brightly lit room with five chairs on one side and, on the other, the stainless steel washbasins. There was also a shelf with hair-care products and cosmetics for sale to clients. I only had a few posters on the walls because I did not want the salon to look tacky.

  Already there were four established hairdresser’s salons at Sam Levy’s: Catt’s Beauté, Devine Touch, Goddess Hair and Beauty Salon and the aptly named Village Beauty. Stiff competition. I needed a name. By mid-December all my signage had to be up. African Queen, Nubian, Essex… Nothing seemed quite right. I wanted something that everyone would remember the very first time they heard it.

  The hairdressing project consumed so much of my time that I worried I was neglecting Dumi and Chiwoniso. That they didn’t seem to mind occasionally piqued me.

  After we’d finished our chores, Michelle dropped me off at home early one day. I was surprised to see a Land Rover I didn’t recognise in the driveway. Maidei had never brought visitors to the house before and I had assumed Dumi was at work. I unlocked the door cautiously, fearful that they would be robbers.

  ‘Is anyone at home?’ I called out from the doorway.

  There was the sound of footsteps in the bedroom wing, so I shouted that I was going to call the police. What a bluff! Police vehicles never had any petrol, so I couldn’t know when they would come, if at all.

  ‘It’s only me.’ I heard Dumi’s voice calling from his room.

  I relaxed. ‘I thought you were at work.’

  Dumi popped his head out of his room and replied, ‘I got my schedule mixed up. I wasn’t supposed to be in work today.’

  ‘Whose car is that out there?’

  He could not have heard me because he returned to his room. Could it be another woman? I chided myself for being so petty about the man I thought I loved.

  A few minutes later Dumi emerged with someone behind him whom I could not see properly because the corridor light was dim.

  ‘Mrs Proprietor herself. It’s good to see you. I had feared I was going to leave without seeing you.’ The familiar voice was Mr M___’s.

  ‘Aizve! I was not expecting you. Would you like me to cook you some sadza?’ I stood up to greet him.

  ‘Don’t trouble yourself. I’d just dropped in to see this young man about our wedding anniversary when he told me that you are opening your own salon soon.’

  ‘Yes, we’re putting the finishing touches to it now. We hope to open on the fifteenth, in time for the Christmas rush.’

  ‘It’s a pity you won’t be ready in time for the anniversary, though I doubt I could ever convince my wife to go anywhere else but Mrs Khumalo’s.’

  ‘Maybe that will change when all her favourite hairdressers move there.’

  ‘I’m not a woman, so you would know better than me.’

  ‘Can I offer you a drink? Maidei, Maidei, where is this girl?’ I stood up to go to the kitchen to find her.

  ‘I gave her the afternoon off so she could go into town,’ Dumi said. This was the first time he had ever interfered with domestic affairs and I thought he was beginning to assert himself as the man of the house.

  ‘I was just about to leave,’ Mr M___ said. ‘There is never any time to sit down and chat with people like we used to do in the old days. Right now I have to go to a Party meeting and from there I’m off to the farm. I tell you, I’m far too old for this. Dumisani, we should talk about our surprise a bit more if you get a chance. I need this thing to be perfect.’

  That evening I lay in bed with Dumi and we chatted about the new salon’s business model. I needed to set it apart and give it higher standards than anything else at the centre.

  ‘Look at the people who go there. They’re wealthy and flashy and often wear bling, so you need to take them to the next level. Whatever they charge, you charge double. It will cream off the wealthiest and give them the exclusivity they’re always craving.’

&nb
sp; So that’s how the name for my salon was born — Exclusive.

  Thirty

  The day my salon opened was the best day of my life. There was a purple sign at the front which read, Exclusive, in bold cursive lettering. It wasn’t Exclusive Hairdressers or Exclusive Hairdressing and Beauty, no, my salon was just Exclusive. Michelle and another girl wore shorts and t-shirts advertising the salon and handed out small business cards with our phone number, which on one side read, Exclusive, and on the other, We Don’t Want You.

  There were stickers on the window stating, ‘By appointment only’. I sat in the shop sipping champagne with the Ncubes. The first people who came were stopped by two suited men in dark glasses at the front who told them the salon would not be open to the public until the first VIP came in to get her hair done. The more people they turned away, the more arrived to try to find out what was going on.

  This first customer was due in at half past ten and I paced the floor anxiously, praying she would show up. The manager of the complex came to check that everything was all right for our grand opening. A photographer from the Herald stopped by to take a few photos and wandered around the shopping centre waiting for our guest to arrive.

  ‘You look a bundle of nerves, child. Try to relax,’ Mrs Ncube said as she adjusted my waistcoat. I’d decided that our uniform would comprise black trousers, white blouses and purple waistcoats with the logo of a woman sitting cross-legged in a yoga position.

  ‘Are you sure she’s coming?’

  ‘They wouldn’t be here if she wasn’t.’ Mrs Ncube pointed at the suited men.

  My palms were sweaty and I had to wipe them every few minutes with one of our towels. Dumi was with us as well. He had taken a fortnight off work and decided to postpone his holiday until the new year. His visa was valid for six months in any case. My new receptionist/cashier was at the desk. She was Trina’s cousin, Sarah, a woman with fiery red hair who spoke with a Rhodie accent and was great at organising the admin aspects of the business.

  ‘I always knew you’d start up your own place one day,’ said Trina, who’d come to see the opening. She had agreed to be my supplier, but only if I guaranteed there wouldn’t be any war vets visiting the shop.

  ‘I had a lot of help.’ I gestured towards the Ncubes.

  ‘Nonsense girl, Exclusive is not the place for false modesty.’ Mr Ncube laughed so loudly, the sound reverberated round the walls.

  The shop had five staff including Sarah; Dumi, who still needed to give his notice to Mrs Khumalo, Yolanda, a girl called Tariro who I’d poached from Central Hair, and me. We would get more staff as and when the business expanded. In the meantime Sarah could help out on the floor when needed.

  The phone rang and everyone fell silent. It was our first call already.

  Sarah picked it up. ‘Yallo… You want an appointment… let me see… hmm… when did you want to come in… mmm not today or tomorrow… this week is tight but we could fit you in on Friday…’

  The truth is we had no appointments in the book but Dumi had told her to make it seem as though we were inundated. ‘The illusion of success is enough to breed success,’ he’d said authoritatively. Sarah put the receiver down. She’d put on a convincing performance. I just hoped that the stunt wouldn’t backfire and cost us customers. She winked as she gave me the thumbs up.

  ‘The first one’s in the bag.’

  I looked at the clock and it was twenty-five to eleven. Our guest still hadn’t shown up. I could hear my tummy rumble and feel the butterflies floating inside. What if she didn’t show? Dumi patted my shoulder to comfort me.

  Outside, a man and a woman appeared in front of the shop. They pointed at the sign as if unsure of where they were. The woman wore a yellow and white doek and had a similar cloth wrapped around her waist like a village woman. The man wore a faded grey suit, which had seen too many days, and walked with a slight stoop. Behind them a security guard followed at a distance, observing them. They looked out of place in an upmarket area like this.

  ‘Pamwe ndipo,’ the woman said, and they approached the shop. The security men stopped them and told them the place was only open for people with appointments. That’s when I recognised them.

  ‘Baba, amai,’ I shouted and ran to the door. ‘Let them pass,’ I said to the guards.

  ‘Is it really you my daughter?’ my mother said, her eyes moistening. I embraced them both and tried hard to stop myself crying.

  ‘Fungai told us you were opening a shop and we came to see for ourselves. God be praised.’ My father’s eyes wandered about the shop with pride.

  I introduced them to Mr and Mrs Ncube, who seemed relieved that there was a couple of their own age to converse with. They clapped their hands and said ‘makadini’ to one another as tradition dictated. Their conversation quickly veered to the subject of their rural homes. As with all old people they quickly came up with some obscure connection that immediately made them distant relatives. If my parents had made the effort to break with our dispute and come and celebrate with me then I had every right to feel invincible. Nothing could possibly go wrong except that the guest was half an hour late and we were all getting restless.

  Michelle ran into the salon around half past eleven and shouted, ‘Battle stations people, Auntie Grace is coming.’

  A few seconds later, the president’s wife walked in, surrounded by four bodyguards. She wore a black suit with golden embroidery running down the hem of the skirt and all around the borders of the jacket. She had an elegant walk and took no notice of the people gawking at her from the pavements. The Herald reporter returned just in time to snap her as she walked through the door.

  ‘Tisvikewo — May I come in?’ she said on the threshold. Dumi pushed me forward to meet her, saying it was my big day.

  ‘Please come in, Amai Mugabe,’ I said with a curtsy.

  ‘Call me Auntie Grace. Amai Mugabe makes me sound so old.’ She beamed at me with a gracious smile. ‘It’s Vimbai, isn’t it?’

  She already knew the Ncubes and greeted them. I went round and introduced my parents who were overwhelmed to be in her presence. Her apparently easy-going nature made them feel at ease, especially when she called them Amai and Baba. The last person I introduced was Trina. She was at the back and the strain showed on her face.

  ‘Are you related to Nick Price the golfer by any chance?’ Auntie Grace asked her.

  ‘As a matter of fact I am.’ Trina masked the hostility in her voice well.

  ‘There’s also Ray Price the cricketer, you’re all related aren’t you? No one has done more than the Prices to put the Zimbabwean flag on the sporting map. You should take my phone number down. If I can be of any use to you in the future do not hesitate to call me.’ A slight smile appeared on Trina’s face but vanished quickly, as if she was afraid to hope.

  We sat Auntie Grace in the chair near the window and gave her a cup of coffee.

  ‘Your prices are scary,’ she said with a laugh. ‘Tell me exactly what you are going to do to me, Vimbai, before you rob me.’

  Everyone went silent waiting for me to talk. Dumi crossed his fingers and mouthed something like ‘go girl’.

  ‘I’m going to make you look good for the President.’

  Grace laughed and everyone else laughed along with her.‘That’s a tall order, your president is a hard man to please.’

  ‘This is the easiest job I will ever do because his wife is already stunningly beautiful.’ When I said this Auntie Grace looked at herself in the mirror with a hint of vanity. ‘Your face has strong well-defined features. I’m going to give you braids that match the complexion of your skin.’ I took out four packets and matched each one against her face until I settled on a rusty coloured one. ‘Dumi, come over to the other side and work with me.’

  We worked furiously, weaving the braids into her hair. We left the ends free just as Dumi had done for Minister M___. Auntie Grace sat patiently and chatted with the Ncubes. With the both of us working together, we finished her
in half the time it would normally have taken. She looked at herself in the mirror and turned from side to side nodding her head to show her satisfaction. When she tried to get up from the chair I ordered her back down. We then went on to give her a pedicure and a manicure. This was built into our bill but, because we didn’t announce it, the client would leave the chair thinking that it had been done specially for them.

  ‘I feel like a new woman. Thank you very much. This is all so lovely. Now, Vimbai, I can’t come here every month but I would like you to be my personal hairdresser from now on. I will call for you whenever I need you.’ Everyone applauded when she said this. As soon as she left the salon with her suited companions I collapsed on the chair.

  Thirty one

  The salon really took off in the new year. I figured since the country’s average life expectancy was thirty-seven, I would concentrate on the young and the beautiful. There was no point in indulging a clientele that was statistically supposed to be dead. For people over forty we were very selective; they had to be the cream of the elite to use our service.

  The publicity garnered from the first lady’s visit had been of immense value to us. Our salon had been featured in the state newspapers and the independent weeklies. The latter did not know that they were doing us a favour in their portrayal of the salon as over-priced and élitist.

  It became necessary for me to spend more and more time at the business. I had also begun taking driving lessons because I needed my own wheels. Dumi had served his notice at Mrs Khumalo’s salon. He told me she had practically begged him to stay. We were spending less time together but I was so happy in my work that I did not notice his absence, or question it as I might once have done. I hoped that once he began working for me our companionship would resume.