Our hair was a little over two months, and even lice that had lived in the bushy hair for so long were growing weary of getting lost every now and then in the thickening thicket they once called home.

We went to knock on the door of our parents’ room. Without answering, they knew it was us. Time with the barber. We expected the curtains to part any moment with dad’s hand sticking out and handing us money for the haircut at Uncle Sulé’s.

To our surprise, mother came out, a pair of big old scissors in hand. A long stool she used when she was once a dressmaker followed.

We tried to suppress our displeasure.

Mother, coming to cut our hair? Oh No!

“Joe, bring me the mirror in the basket beside the bed.”

Reluctantly, Joe went in. After about a minute, he was back.

“Sit.” Mother instructed.

Joe sat. We looked on.

She started with combing, then proceeded to gently chopping off hair extensions from the bouquets on his skull. At first, she seemed very professional. But as she progressed, it was becoming obvious that she was no match for Uncle Sulé.

I cast my eyes over the stretches of houses leading to the hill where Uncle Sulé’s barber shop stood. Sighing, I turned to fix my gaze again on the poor Joe who sat still and had no idea what he was being turned into.

On the floor were chunks of Joe’s hair, mother’s incompetence visible for all to touch and feel.

In no time, each of us will take our places on the hot seat where mother’s old pair of scissors asked questions and our bushy hairs fell in response.