Day #57, country #9 of the trip, 39 of a lifetime
When I sat down in John’s chair for a trim, I ended up getting more than expected.
There are tons of black people in Paris- Africans of all kinds, native French and a few Americans. This is a good thing because after a few weeks on the road, my ‘fro needed a quick trim and wanted to go to someone who wouldn’t find my hair fascinating.
I never thought of going to a barber at home, but a guy at the beauty supply store reccomended this place and they could take me right away.
My hair’s all wild, I’m wearing the smock and next thing I know. John is trying to ask me out- like wait a minute dude, what am I supposed to say? You’ve got a pair of scissors to my head?
Because he’s Nigerian, John’s English is perfect. When I tried to deflect with grace, he had the nerve to say, “It is Paris after all.”
With some diplomacy and a collection of awkward faces I managed to get out of there with my hair trimmed, John’s number “just in case,” and my first French barbershop story all for 10 euros.
My hair looked no different, which was the goal and I’ll never forget how ridiculous the scene ended with John insisting on holding my mane as I wrestled it back into a scruncii. #afroissues