Flirting with the Lady Attendant 

Met by the breeze of a high-capacity, high-sense air conditioner, they put on their social fabric to match the mood and locale of the trimming services. Mirrors that reflect our true selves. 

Sometimes you come across too many kids waiting in line, 

so you give them an early pass to show concern. 

You meet people who live early, 

and you wish you could end or stop your session to get their contacts.

Boisterous and quiet personas: 

some loud to be heard, 

some distant, not trying to fit in. 

Barbers or apprentices with trousers too short, belts out of alignment. A barber with crazy hairstyles and cheap, plated jewellery. 

You see all kinds of artworks and distinct floor tilings. 

She catches my eye in the mirror. I look away. 

The rhythmic snip-snap of shears against coarse hair. 

The low hum of a buzzing clipper motor. 

A cool damp towel pressed against the nape. 

Beautiful, stylish wax prints of hairstyles on display. 

Faint aroma of talcum powder. 

The barber shakes his lapel—a sign to call who is next. 

Legs on ten toes, he quickly sips an energy-boosting carbonated drink. Chatter of local news, gossip, music fanatics, culture followers. The smooth worn texture of imported leather seats 

that smell of the Atlantic Ocean and shipping containers. 

Sunlight glinting over glass windows. 

The tangy zest of citrus-scented aftershave. 

That sweet smell of coconut oil mixed with hair tonic. 

She laughs at something a customer says. I smile into the mirror. Our eyes meet. 

The warmth of a hand gliding through my scalp under running hot water. Sometimes my neck feels like it would break: positioned at an unnatural angle. It gets scarier when men of honour are instructed 

to ready and lay bare throats and voiceboxes, 

like a chicken gripped in line, ready to be slaughtered. 

Contrariwise, this only offers a clean shave, not a death penalty.

I exhale. 

Not every hair reaches the bin. 

Some go into small black polythene bags— 

palmed by apprentices when no one watches. 

I have seen a man in a white smock at closing time, 

whispers and crumpled cedis for a fistful of curls. 

They say hair carries your luck. 

Your name in the mouth of spirits. 

Some boil it with parrot eggs and grave dirt to make customers unable to say no. Some bury it under shop entrances—you step over your own essence. Some feed it to fire at midnight, and whatever burns follows the smoke. 

The barber laughs. "Boss, you believe that nonsense?" 

But he lowers his voice. 

I watch my fallen curls scatter like evidence. 

Every now and then, tiny sheaves of hair are gathered into a bin. I consider asking for them back. 

I do not. 

All kinds of dyes for beads and hair follicles. 

The kaleidoscope of colourful wax prints on customers' shirts. Moving jaws filled with quick bites, 

staring at giant screens that show the pulse of Ghanaian culture. The sweetness of chilled Malta Guinness, sipped slow, 

while highlife songs crackle on the radio. 

The satisfying nod to the barber: recognition and appreciation for the clean cut.

Next, the service is digitally acknowledged with a multiple-button press from phone bop-ups. 

Sometimes hard currency greases the palms. 

Then reassurances of another visit soon. 

She hands me my change. Our fingers touch. She says, "Next time." Her soft female voice reaches my heart in milliseconds. 

People exit the same way they entered. 

I flirt with my hair in dreadlocks now. 

No more barber shop attendant flirting. 

No more whispers, no more fallen curls in polythene bags, 

no more neck at a chicken angle. 

I let it grow. 

I let it lock. 

I touch my own scalp and call it freedom. 

She surprisingly shows up in a TV interview with a popular sports hackette. I beam with smiles for what could have been.