I left work early on Thursday evening – bad hair day and it couldn’t wait till Friday. What if I don’t get there early enough? and trust me; Friday evening is not the best time to go to this my semi-posh salon. I don’t know who thought to educate all the young and old women in town on the advantage of going to the salon after work on Friday to avoid the whole Saturday rush, because in the end, it turns out that the traffic at the salon is the same on Friday evenings, Saturdays and Sundays. Now that’s me travelling from the point. I struggled through traffic, arrived at the salon building and faced my first trouble which was the usual lack of parking space. I’m not sure whose idea it was to build a plaza with about fifty shops and now garnish it with parking space for twenty cars in a country where everyone has their ‘Ferrari’ on the road. Even if it is not their desire for poor customers to own cars, at least each shop owner should own a car, abi? Let’s do the math, 50 shops, 20 cars, this one go require further maths… I no fit!
Finally, I got lucky, as this madam was driving out, although it was in one of those ‘pay to park’ spaces; or isn’t half bread better than nothing again ne? I was quick to squeeze my ‘Bugatti’ in before she changed her mind about leaving, and I’m sure I remembered to add a “Thank You Jesus”, being the sister that I am. As I tried to park properly, behold my double blessings – there was another car driving out. Then the security man says, “aunty, you go fit revise go back or you go just enter for front?” So I settled to park in front and then went on to pay for the space. I smiled when the lady asked, “how many hours?” In my mind, I’m like, you guys close in less than an hour, am I suppose to tell you that I’ll spend nothing less than three hours at the salon, when y’all will be gone by then? Nah! Then I answered, “Between thirty minutes and one hour.” I paid for one hour and moved on.
I entered the salon, with everybody struggling to do the “aunty, how are you?”, “long time”, bla blab bla… That’s them reminding you to tip them before you leave. I don hear una, oya let’s get down to business – My hair! That’s how someone opened her pedicure kit. Ha! That scent I cannot miss – ‘pure witchcraft’, then I whispered to the lady taking out my weave that I wanted a pedicure as well even as I was certain that I wasn’t due for another one just yet. I did a quick peek into my wallet. Extra cash? Check. Debit card? Check. Then I called the lover to inform him I was at the salon, who knows things may get out of hand, I might need him to pay last last. In his usual drama self, he goes “I’m sorry I’m very tired, I can’t come, blab bla ba”, then I answered, “Fine!” I wasn’t ready for all those weak lines, he’ll say he’s not coming and then he’ll show up. ‘Pure witchcraft’ again and I was asking for facials. I did another peek into wallet. Cash? Check. Debit card? Check. Everything else? Check. Let’s roll.
Of course I spent more than three hours at the salon, not with all the extra indulgence that I rewarded myself with. Whatever for? I dunno. To be honest, it was worth it sha. I was almost done when the lover walked in with some evening snack – snails. Oooh lah lacious, I (do not) love this man. But nah! I don’t eat where hair gets done (it’s something in my head, you won’t understand); I gave him my car keys to put my ‘jackpot’ in the car for me. He came back with a puzzled look on his face and asked, “You had an accident and didn’t tell me?” Accident ke? I was ready to act drama. Abi bobo yi fa nkan ni (is this boy smoking something)? At this point, Mr. Lover had realised what happened and knowing me well, he had to stop me from showing myself in public, so he goes, “it is not serious don’t mind me, it’s like someone scratched your car, just a small scratch”. I relaxed in my chair again and let the stylist guy finish up.
I finished, got comments on how my hair was all that, tipped everyone involved in making me look beautiful and I remembered my snails in the car, it’s time to go home, biko. Feeling fly with myself, I approached my car and was welcomed by the biggest wreckage ever; some person had given my car some fine brushing. Both doors on the driver’s side were properly damaged. At this point I’m sure there was no more ‘flyness’ left in me. My first anger was at the lover, why did he lie that it was just a scratch? I can come back to him later sha. Who is the moron that will spoil a fine evening like this for me with this kind of bad behavior? Back to the lover again, why did you deceive me so? The funny part is how I wasn’t exactly upset about the damage, but I was sha angry that the lover lied about the degree of the damage… That was just wrong.
That’s how I entered the salon on this fateful day; bad hair, tired face and all + fairly pretty car and in those few hours that I had transformed into a queen of sorts in my new look, my car was now a jalopee with the doors singing a dirge as I drove home.
I’m on a mission to be happy by fire by force, damaged car or not… A panel beater can fix that, my happiness is my job, and only I can fix it… xoxo
Lawyer, talker, gistaranta!
P.S. This post was written on the 4th of December 2013.