Saloon
The barber nervously admitted that he’d never cut mzungu hair before. I had finally decided that I couldn’t live 2 years in Tanzania without enjoying the services of a hair saloon (it just sounds exciting, doesn’t it?). This one bragged that it specialized in “all types of hair.” I thought it was safe.

I explained I wanted about two inches off. I should have explained that this was 2 inches from my entire head of hair, evenly. The barber deftly whipped a cloth across my shoulders, grabbed a lock of my hair, and poised his scissors about 7 inches from the end. “Two inches!” I screamed, just seconds before the damage could be done. He wiped the sweat from his brow, repositioned his weapon, and hacked off 2 inches. Then there was an awkward pause, and he asked “should I continue?”, as if I seriously might be satisfied with this and walk out. He continued to grab random locks of my hair and lop off a couple of inches, pausing now and then to ask if he was done. I was tempted to ask just to borrow the scissors. Once my hair was roughly 2 inches shorter, and I’d gotten him to trim some missed spots, I freed the man from his drudgery. I was relieved that not too much damage had resulted, but a little disappointed at the lack of action at the saloon.

Burn
When my environment kids finished their little experimental garden, I noticed that the little Tupperware I had given them filled with sunflower seeds to plant was empty. I realized it was a dumb move to give them the whole container if I wanted the extra ones. I wasn’t mad—how could I be when some of these kids hadn’t eaten since the night before? But I told them I needed everyone who had eaten seeds to raise their hands immediately so I could rush them to the clinic. I told them I’d sprayed the seeds with pesticides, and we’d have to hurry up and get them treated. A few of the kids, looking rather worried, tentatively raised their hands, while the very clever ones realized it was a trick. When I admitted my fib, they fell on the ground laughing.

No More Zombies
The kids in my sex ed class shocked me last class. When I arrived, a shy but creative student had a greeting he had prepared to take the place of the normal comatose recitation. (See Saturday, Feb. 2 - Zombies entry)

“Gail Norton (clap, clap), AIDS and youth (clap, clap, clap), we are learning (x3) each and everything, YEAH!”

At first my name was pronounced so strangely that I didn’t recognize it, but once I did, I nearly choked on my own saliva. I still find it startling when I receive this little cheer session, but have learned to take it as a much-needed confidence booster before a class I still get nervous about teaching.

In the previous session three boys had volunteered eagerly to prepare a skit to perform in front of the class. I hadn’t talked to them since they had agreed, and I was convinced they had changed their minds, and were too shy to perform a play about misconceptions about sex and pregnancy for their peers. Boy was I wrong. These kids attacked the play with such enthusiasm, adding their own style and details, down to hilarious walks, that we asked them to perform a second time. I can’t wait until the next skit.