The following comb was left out of the Afro Comb exhibition in Cambridge due to its murderous nature. It is currently undergoing a trial via the internet. Approach the suspect, when seen, with caution.
7 o’clock slowly creeps up on me as I sit outside our neighbourhood salon getting my hair braided.
The mosquitos are now looking for tasty flesh to frustrate. I watch the sky quickly turn dark through the braids that are accumulating around my face.
The tension is real. Not only in my body, but between the fingers of the two hairdressers who have taken my hair hostage and abused my scalp.
For the second time I’ve heard the words “straighten” and “perm” as they discuss matters in the local dialect, Twi, and handle my hair. I’m almost certain they are referring to my hair.
As one of the hairdressers slaps her upper arm in attempted murder to a mosquito, I secretly, then regrettably, take delight in her temporary pain.
My pain has been longer lived. I’ve been in this plastic chair outside since 3PM. They told me if I changed my style choice from twists with extensions to braids it would all be over quickly…
At this point it all sounds like lies.
No, not really. They probably underestimated the density of my luscious locks.
Yes, I complimented my own hair. It deserves it. Not purely on aesthetics, but also its lifetime resilience and dedication to my every cause.
This time its the hours of torture as the hairdressers part my hair with a small comb – then wait for it…
Proceed to comb through with the closely placed bristles.
Natural hair community please contain your anger on my behalf.
I continued to sit while vowing – never.again.
As God would have it, I had met Nii Akwei Okaikoi Barima of Ekome Cares in Osu, Accra before I had volunteered my hair to this battle field.
Perhaps it’s a sign to move to a dedicated natural hair stylist.
I miss Tieska Jumbo.
Perhaps Nii Akwei can provide an alternative?
I think of the food my belly yearns for… The skirt I’m yet to pick up from the seamstress for a funeral I am attending tomorrow and the dream of cuddling my scalp with some satin material to tell it how sorry I am and how much I care.
Because these stylists abused my scalp and tresses unapologetically for hours on end. And because they didn’t apologise to me and my scalp.
Thus, I am left with the task.