I'd rather go to the dentist...

Feelings of abhorrence, regret and pity come over Peter while watching my head through the mirror. It's not going well. Peter knows he should intervene now, but sits frozen on his chair. The man just isn't able to do it, even though he tries really hard. Concentrated, the tip of his tongue sticking out of his mouth, he runs the electrical hair-clippers through my blond locks. We're at the hairdressers in Fort Portal. This means, we're in a two by two metres hut with mirrors and a young man with an oversized baseball-cap who pretends to be a hairdresser. In the corner an old radio on a volume so loud every conversation becomes a shouting party. Next to me a friend of the hairdresser lies horizontal in a chair.

Peter breaks out in perspiration when he remembers our last experience at a hairdresser, some six weeks ago in Jinja. He was the victim that time. He wanted a real short hairdo, spikes. Thirty eight years ago was the last time he had a marine-cut. He was five years old, still lived with his parents, but was convinced he was old enough to determine his own style of hair-dressing. Inspired by his aunt, who was a hairdresser, he took a pair of scissors out of the cupboard and stood in front of a mirror. He'd often seen his aunt do it and it looked really easy. Full of confidence he cut a chunk out of his snow-white hair, almost cutting a piece of skin as well. Then his mother entered the room… Half an hour later he sat in the chair of a barber who shook his head. The barber only saw one solution: spikes. In Jinja Peter decided to go back in time. At one of the dozens of hairdressers he sat down in a chair with only one elbow-rest, in front of a broken mirror. The very young hairdresser who, if I remember correctly, wore a slightly oversized baseball-cap, admitted he didn't own scissors, just electrical hair-clippers. In these countries hair-clippers are all you need, the woolly-hair people are all being 'reduced to size' with those. Luckily spikes can be made with hair-clippers as well and with a buzzing sound the first locks fall on the street. After every run the apparatus seems to buzz his last buzz for which the hairdresser puts some oil in the moving parts every ten seconds. One minute later no more oil is needed: a powercut stops all electrical activity in the neighbourhood, including the hair-clippers. Peter's hairdresser isn't easily daunted and says: "Be back in a minute", while he walks away. Shortly after he returns carrying some real scissors. Apparently for the first time in his life, because without comb or anything he starts cutting Peter hair left and right. Desperately Peter and I look at each other. "You've done this before?" Peter asks with a voice that's trembling slightly.

"Yes, I have got a lot of experience!" with the confidence of a five-year old.
No hair on our heads believes one word he says and after a few minutes we tell him to stop. The result is awful: short and long locks, gaps everywhere and on top of Peter's head a major gap where the bone is almost visible. As if his head has been stuck in a threshing-machine. In a hurry we leave the torture-chamber, in search of a hairdresser with hair-clippers and generator. "I wish I had an oversized baseball-cap as well," Peter says. Walking down the street it seems like people are more interested in us than usual. Smiling friendly, laughing at the wrong side of his face, Peter greets the people around us, while we feel a strong attraction to the noise of generators. Everything is well again when a hairdresser with generator manages to create a level five millimetres on Peter's head with his hair-clippers. Apart from the one spot.

Now it's my turn. The hairdresser's friend moves slightly, so his finger touches the volume-button now. Apparently the noise wasn't loud enough. The hairdresser still runs his hair-clippers too close to my long locks and incidentally cuts some hair a few times. This way it will never reach the same length and Peter sees big holes appearing left and right. At his wits end Peter gets up, fetches a comb with which he straightens my hair and asks the hairdresser to run the clippers along the comb. That's a good idea. The hairdresser tries to do the job on his own again, but handling comb and clippers at the same time is too much. Peter decides to help him and together they succeed to level my already heavily battered head in such a way that running won't be a problem. With our tiny scissors Peter does some repairs the following day.
Fortunately I do have a baseball-cap.