Of Haircuts and Budget Cuts: Hairline Meets Bottomline

Before Canada, visits to my barber were religious observances—twice a week. Wednesdays? Line-up Day—keeping me ever “so fresh and so clean, clean” (OutKast 3:16). Saturdays? The full one-step cut that had me looking sharper than the mouths on “chi-dren of nawa-days.” My barber— “Fades”? A masterful craftsman, matching my style with sculptor-like precision. Even with odder craniums, you know, those with uneven topographies—he’d deal with their situations without charging extra. Empathy combined with charity? Bless him!

And his barbershop? A social hub— “Face before the Book.” That’s where we’d renounce our soccer clubs, grill the government for their latest acts of disservice, and take jabs at strangers we just met because—well, we’re guys. Tips? Optional but likely, and always appreciated. The banter flowed like palm wine, and no one took it personally. We all knew the deal: come for the gist, stay for the sake of argument, and leave with a haircut and no hard feelings.

Then I arrived in Ottawa, where finding a barber who understood my style and hair texture was as challenging as it was easy to spot a coffeeshop. Even when the style charts looked inviting, the price list bounced me at the door. For how many heads? I needed Fades—a star without the ‘bucks.’ Was that too much to ask? Come to think of it, I wanted my style just like my coffee: I didn’t care who made it, as long as it was black, brisk, and within budget.

Eventually, I found a half-decent barbershop half an hour away and tried to get back to my routine, but things weren’t the same. While in Naija, the barbershop was lively and full of spirited debates; in Ottawa, the atmosphere shifted dramatically. It was much calmer, more like quick exchanges of pleasantries, which was refreshing in its own way—until the only buzzing I could hear was from the clippers. Conversations, if at all, revolved around the weather, pets, and... the weather, punctuated by endless silences that seemed to signal 'personal space.’

I started to feel a pang of nostalgia for the raucous debates I left behind. Adjusting to this new norm felt like trading in a lively street party—Owambe (if you know, you know)—for a quiet afternoon tea. It was refreshing at first, but soon, I longed for the energy and connection that came from the brotherhood, where no one indifferently asked about my “plans for the weekend” because the shop was “The Weeknd” and you could feel it coming from Wednesday.

Then there was the investment. Burning gas, the long commute, and spending $50 a week on haircuts was about as sustainable as party rice reaching everyone. Even that ever-resourceful, sassy ‘Auntie’—you know the type we all have—couldn’t pull that off. With that kind of money, I could get forty cuts from Fades! I wanted just a little off the top, but this felt more like decapitation! More importantly, I crunched the numbers, and that’s when I realized it was time to put my economics degree to good use. Fully woke, I leaned into India Arie’s timely wisdom and concluded: 'I am not my hair.'

So, I took matters—and clippers—into my own hands. One chilly Canadian winter... obviously, I decided to take the plunge, pick a style I couldn’t screw up, and keep all the tips for myself. After a few hair-raising YouTube tutorials and some rough cuts, I started to get the hang of it. And when I didn’t? Well, that’s what toques are for. Canadian winters are half the year anyway, so I had plenty of cover, even when I couldn’t feel my face.

In conclusion, let me be clear—my haircuts aren’t perfect, but given that they’re free, I never have to ask for a refund. I didn’t have a receding hairline when this DIY journey began almost ten years ago. But after skipping a few shaves here and there, I caught a glimpse of it starting to recede. First, my economy went into recession, and now my hairline? I won’t pull my hair out over any of this. Hey, I’ve saved money, even if not my hairline. I cut back, so it cut back. Touché, universe. Who needs hair anyway? To me, it’s like a smartphone running on empty—dead cells.