A few days after arriving for good in Cape Town, I looked at the dishevelled mess on top of my head and decided that it was time I found a hairdresser. Now, coming, as I did, from Gauteng, I knew that hairdressers were expensive things. It was also fairly difficult to find a place where you didn’t have to go through the dubious pleasure of entering the ultra-chic, cliquéd, mirrored environment of people sitting languidly with silver paper strips sticking from their head, while emaciated orange- haired waifs wandered around with brushes and scissors in their hands.
“I would like a haircut,” I said. She glanced at my balding pate. “Do you have an appointment?” No I didn’t, I admitted. Oh well, she was very sorry. “Everyone is completely full,” she said. “I can fit you in on Thursday,” she said. The day was Monday. I left.
