Mike Hudson and the Deathly Haircut

On one fine, fine day in Plettenberg Bay a short time ago, my buddy Chris and I decided that we both wanted to get our hair cut. Being that the two of us sport a short-cropped #2 style, we figured a shave down at the local barber shop would come for cheaps.

Well, not so much. The first place quoted us 70 Rand ($10), which is extortion in South African terms. We stormed out of that establishment and on to the next one, only to be quoted the same price. It seems like South Africans enjoy getting ripped off when it comes to visiting the salon. So there we stood on a street corner, feeling slightly defeated and wondering what to do.

“Well Chris,” said I, “it appears we are relegated to spending R70 for the cut.”
“Not so,” replied he, “for I know of one last place which surely offers cheaper services.”
“And what is this place you speak of?” queried I.
“I speak of the local township.”

Townships are slums. They are massive, expansive, completely destitute housing establishments, 100% inhabited by local blacks, and have a reputation for being dangerous, AIDS-ridden, and off-limits to white people. They surround every major city and bleed utilities from the local grids, though in fact most of the township homes are little more than forts made of whatever bits of sheet metal were available at the garbage dump. Townships are very crowded – Johannesburg’s famous Soweto township has more than 3 million inhabitants.

So off we walked, out of Plett’s town centre and into the first township up the way, feeling a tad foolish about our decision to undertake this quest. As we strolled aimlessly through the litter-strewn streets, the black people stared incredulously, often ducking behind fences and bushes while keeping their gazes firmly locked on these two uncanny visitors. Strangely enough, it appeared as if they were afraid of us. At one point, we rounded a corner to find a large group of men sitting in a circle, laughing and yelling. Upon sight of us, they all jumped up and scattered in every direction. One of them lingered and politely asked us if there was anything he could help us with.

“Yes,” I replied. “You can direct us to the local shebeen.” A shebeen is a township bar, usually just someone selling beer in their back yard.
“Uh… sure,” he said after a pause. “So you guys aren’t cops?”

It seems that the group of them was taking part in some illegal gambling, and that they figured we had come to arrest them. Why else would two skinheaded white guys be lurking about?

A few minutes later we were leaning up against some guy’s fence, sucking back quarts of Carling beer, deep in conversation with the locals. They were pleased we had stopped by. We began to inquire about a barber, and one guy explained the situation:

“Oh, we have no barbers here, Brother. We all have our own clippers, so we cut our hair ourselves.”
“Ah! You have clippers! Well, would you mind giving us a shave?”
“No, but you see I am a little bit drunk right now.”
“Oh… well how about your friend,” said Chris, pointing to a second fellow, “can he do it, or has he been drinking too?”
“No, he has not been drinking.”
“Ah, excelle-“
“But he has smoked a lot of marijuana today.”

These guys sure knew how to party – it was only 11AM. But to make a long story short, we made a few more enquiries, and within 15 minutes I was sitting on the back of an overturned beer crate, a filthy towel draped over my neck, drinking a beer and having my head shaved by some guy who was philosophizing in Afrikaans. Chris got the same treatment and we hit the road, being safely escorted out of the township by some 20-year-old guy who claimed to be the local detective. And to think some tourists pay for township tours!

You probably all think I’m risking my scalp (literally) for doing this. Perhaps. The hostel owners in Plett scolded us for it, but being white South Africans, they are extremely racist. I refuse to believe that township people are dangerous just because they are black and poor. We took a risk and ended up meeting some nice people. Plus, we got the haircuts for the price of a few beers.