The haircut didn’t happen today.
It was yesterday — and unfortunately, it’s still very present.
The clippers moved slowly. Not confidently, not decisively.
They traced curves, stopped at strange angles, made corner cuts where no corner should exist. It didn’t feel like cutting hair. It felt like someone experimenting.
He didn’t seem to know what he was doing.
There was no plan, no rhythm — just movement. Like sculpting without knowing the final shape.
I didn’t trust the process.
I wasn’t “letting go” or “embracing the moment”. I was sitting there hoping it wouldn’t get worse. Hoping damage control was still possible.
When you’re on the road, you live with the results immediately.
There’s no familiar barber to fix it, no quick correction the next day. Whatever happens in that chair stays with you.
And this one?
It looks terrible.
I’m not happy with the haircut at all. There’s nothing artistic about it. It’s uneven, awkward, and impossible to ignore when I look in the mirror.
I would never go back. Not even for a free apology trim.
It reminded me of a haircut I once had in Kenya, where I looked like a chicken that had lost its feathers — patchy, confused, exposed. Back then, too, it felt like hair wasn’t being cut, but handled the way someone works material instead of style.
Some barbers I’ve met here work with hair the way sculptors work with stone: slow, instinctive, experimental. Unfortunately, hair remembers everything.
Sometimes traveling gives you great stories.
Sometimes it gives you bad haircuts.
This one will take time to grow out.
The memory will probably last longer.
You can follow my journey and read more stories here:
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Location: Moshi, Tanzania, Africa