Oh, My Head!

Well, some people asked for pictures. There's been nothing really picture-worthy here lately, so I'll give ya'all what I've got.

Here is my hair as of a few days ago. Not so bad, I guess, if I keep it like this. (Sorry for the blank look. It's not my fault, really. Being on a perpetual vacation in the sun depresses me.)

Here it is if I pull it down.

Here it is if I pull it up.

 Here it is after I let go.

Altogether pretty nasty, yes? Don't worry; you can tell me. The Malawians didn't like it either.

...which is why I did this:

It was pretty great. I went shopping, and decided I would come home with my hair cut to surprise Jen. There is a row of four or five barber shops in front of the market, and as soon as I got near, they spotted my mane and started arguing over who got to cut my hair. I played them against each other for a while and got a guy to do it for 200 kwacha—about $1.25. (It's not as impressive an accomplishment as it sounds; the first bid I wrung out of anybody was 300 kwacha. I asked another guy if he would do it for 200, and he said yes, so that was that.) When I got home, the kids started yelling, “Jonathan cut his hair! Jonathan cut his hair!” Jen came out and said, “What? You did?!” It was pretty fun. D told me that “If anybody could kill with looks, it'd be you.” (He was unaware that this is generally a complimentary phrase.)

And then the next evening I did this:

Which was directly before this (mirror images):

See? Picture worthy. (Sorry—it's taking me a while to learn how to smile again.) D told me that now, I could really kill with my looks. I told him I was flattered.

Want some more? Here's one of the other side of my head. Do ya see the big nasty mole?

Everyone here does.

In related news, a mold epidemic has broken out in our house. Two loaves of bread, a bag of rolls, a tomato, and our precious cheese have been affected, in addition to a bug appearing in our spaghetti and burrowing up into several pieces. The old lady from just down the street tells me that uncovering moles when you shave your head is a portent of doom to your pantry, for if you find disgusting growths hidden on your head, you are sure to find them hidden elsewhere, too. (On a lighter note, Mom and Dad, should I just have it and the one on the back of my head off while I'm bald so that we never have to worry about them again? They both have at least two of the warning signs—irregular shape and color.)

When I went running for the first time after being shorn, everyone just stared at me. I mean, getting stared at's nothing new, but this was different. It was utter disbelief. A tall white guy running around in circles is weird enough, but a tall white bald guy is out of this world. People kept asking me if my alien makeup was uncomfortable to run in and where the filming was going on.

It's actually pretty funny watching people's reactions here. Most of the adults try to be polite, but it's fairly obvious that they're shocked because as they talk to me, their gaze continually drifts up to look at the catastrophe looming above them. It's obvious that they are wondering what sort of nuclear reaction was responsible for the blinding expanse of white. Others don't do quite so well; I've passed several groups of people whose conversations stop suddenly as they sight me, and then the whole group gapes until I'm past, at which point they burst into uncontrollable laughter, switching from English to speak above each other in Chechewa between their gasps for breath.

My kids at school, however, forgo any pretense at politeness at all. They generally either burst into laughter any time they see me (J, D, and A) or stare with bug eyes before launching rapid-fire into questions (H, F, and C) such as, “You shaved your hair?!?,” “Who did it?,” and “But why?!?” My favorite reactions, however, come from K. The first post-shave morning of school when I walked around the corner and he saw me, his face instantly contorted into an expression of extreme torment and suffering, and he screamed, well, like a girl. It was a piercing, blood-curdling scream, followed by the high-pitched, disturbed cry of “It looks like you have cancer!!” And then the next day, when I appeared around a corner where he, J, D, and A were lying in wait to try to scare us, he shrieked again with his hands to his face, stumbling backwards as if shot. When questioned by D he said, “He is too ugly; that is why I scream. He is too ugly!” I laughed my head off, which of course didn't help matters much. (Oh, and I was joking about the people asking if I was in alien makeup, but the day after I wrote the first draft of this post, K accused me of the very thing!!)

Anyway, as I said, some people asked for pictures, and so I was forced to do something which justified the taking of pictures. I hope you're all happy.

Speaking of pictures, I'm going to also do a market post at some point, but don't want to be all touristy with my camera down there yet. I have almost zero bargaining power as it is, being a new white face. They offer a price and when I say, “No, no, that too much; I not have much money (I start talking like them while I'm down there),” they respond with a knowing smile and, “No, no, I know you can,” the implied message (heard louder than any words ever are) of “you white boy; you rich.” They are beginning to respect me due to my regular trips down there and (I like to think) my improving bargaining skills, but if I brought a camera down there at this point (perhaps ever), I would never pay less than three times a fair price again, so you'll have to wait a while.