“It’s because of peer pressure I did it. There was no allegiance sworn to this one…” I keep telling myself. Each of my friends had insisted I do it. Even that shagzmondo that I fake our friendship just because I need a sip of the mursik he brings everytime he comes from home. “Damn it Kliph! You’ll look ‘cooler’…” He had said. I don’t know what he meant by being cooler, for all I cared, I hate cold, be it that of temperatures, attitude or whatever. Now those WWE wrestling fans know why I never cheered Stone cold. He was ugly in his bald haircut anyway. I take less than 5 minutes in the bathroom when I’m using cold tap water for a reason. Anything that seems to be aligning towards cold temperatures, with the exception of cold drinks of course, is a No!No!No!
But then, I meet my ex. Yea, we still talk, somehow. As we laughed to our silly jokes, like that memory of her farting on my lap (in an Uber we had hired as a squad, and because of space issues due to our excess number and economics of campus students, it was unanimously and romantically agreed that ladies be carried), I ask for her expert advice. She says I’m good the way I am. I should stop listening to what others say and I did exactly what she told me. Well… partially of what she told me. The last part. I didn’t follow her advice.You just can’t trust your ex. They can be demons. I had a feeling that deep within her she was jealous and was therefore on a covert mission to make me a downgrade version of myself. An ex can see you dating a thuack (read an ugly girl) but go ahead to praise your eyesight for having spotted and nailed a Miss World, that’s if you are in talking terms. If by chance you don’t see eye to eye, the result can be fatal, like her befriending her behind your back and advice her to trap you with a pregnancy (how this works is a science mystery that top scientists are working around the clock to figure it out).
So I make up my mind and embark on a hunting mission. Each of us has standards that have to be met, unless you are a desperado. I wasn’t just going to settle on any Tory, Dori and Harriet. I wasn’t in a hurry for it to be done that same evening. Moreover, one night stands are too common nowadays that I was thinking of something somewhat different. Maybe tomorrow after the 7 O’clock lesson which when over, I would be free up to afternoon.
Morning glories are supposed to be quick and delightful. But this wasn’t. It was unusually longer and painful, marred by electrical misfire here and there on that silly gadget.
At one point, I just felt like standing up, pick my spectacles from the shelf and storm out. This was awful, not to mention life threatening since a spark came out of it. When done, the bastard didn’t even bother to wipe the filth(read hair) off my body.
I stood before the mirror. I looked naïve, young (let’s just say my baby face is back) and helpless. That feeling of guilt was eating me from inside. Talk of letting somebody else eat the forbidden fruit. I had entered this dungeon in doubt and now I was leaving depressed.
I pay the barber his due, and wait as he scampered from stall to stall looking for change. He wasn’t worth the 10ksh tip so he had to give me 100% of my balance.
I hope Mike, my guy in Kitengela does not get wind of this adulterous action, as I had gone out of our matrimonial convictions of him being the only person licensed to do my haircut. But in case you(Mike) are literate enough to read this, at least you can see how remorseful I am. I’m ready to take a second vow to solidify our bond. Thou shalt not walk into another barber shop apart from King’s Parlour, the one opposite Kobil and has pictures of Ludacris and the like on the wall, a cheerful and beautiful Njeri on the saloon section and Mike on the kinyozi side, a sound system that I’ve never seen but the speakers concealed in a cupboard just below the shelf blast some good Lucky Dube and Bob Marley. I should have known this one here was a sham since it lacked the trademark pictures of a kinyozi. By the way, whoever said you can’t/shouldn’t (I’m not sure which) cry over spilt milk must have been a liar or sadist. I miss my hair and I should be allowed to mourn over this loss.