Love In The Hair

Five years ago, it was a wash day for my hair. I picked up my car key, a woven basket filled with hair accessories, and locked the door behind me.

I got to my favourite hair salon after a lot of “ko sii Kuro lona fun mi Jo,” exaggerated horn sounds from different angles, like the road was filled with ambulances transporting emergency patients. You could vividly hear curse words being thrown carelessly, as they have come to be known as Lagos language. I heaved in relief minutes later as I turned into the parking lot, parked, and walked into the salon.

I was greeted immediately with a different setting. I thought I was in a different place and had made a mistake, but the sweet smile of Lady B and the other staff members of the salon assured my confused mind that I was in the right place.

They said ‘hello,’ and I returned their greeting with a smile, but that wasn’t for long as the smile slowly disappeared and was replaced with astonishment. I was stunned by the beautiful, sorry— handsomely-beautiful man that walked out of the office that I knew to be the office of the Director.

 We locked eyes, and he gave me a boyish smile and went his way. I looked at Lady B and realised that the other three ladies and a guy in the spacious salon were watching me with wild smiles and a knowing look. I felt embarrassed that I was caught red-handed gawking at a man. A whole me, a whole Christian Sister.

Lady B pulled out a seat, saying non-verbally but clearly that I should sit, so I did. Then she whispered in my ear, “There is nothing to be embarrassed about—we all reacted the same way when he first arrived.”

 ‘Who is he?’ I blurted out without thinking. “He is the new Director,” she answered. “Does he make hair?” I asked as I felt her hands in my hair, setting it loose from the trap of hair scrunchies.

“Ah, he is very good, o. He was a trained hair stylist before he went to obodo oyinbo to school. He even made some customers’ hair last weekend when we had plenty of customers,” she explained.

 I don’t know what came over me when I said, “I want him to wash my hair.” Lady B looked at me confused but replied, ‘No, oh…’ I cut her off by repeating the outrageous request.

“Don’t worry, Lady B. I will take care of her hair,” came a husky voice behind us. He must have walked in on our conversation at some point; he stood behind me and looked into my eyes through the huge mirror in front of me, and I could swear that my heart stopped, came back alive, then somersaulted, and the pace increased.

He smiled, but with a mixture of a grin, like a man who had just been complimented by the most beautiful girl in school. “You are in good hands, Madam—I will take care of your hair,” he said.

“Will you take good care of it forever?” I said to myself, but the surprised look on his face and the drop-dead silence in the room suggested I had blurted it out.

He smiled again and asked me to follow him to the washing bowl. However, on our way there, I pinched myself on the cheek and said internally, “Focus, don’t lose guard. You are acting like a secondary school girl that is just adolescent-ing. May God save your sweet soul.”

Not so long after that, I felt cold water penetrating my skull, then soft hands massaging it gently, leaving me wondering why a man’s hand could be so soft. Making sure I wasn’t speaking out, I said to God, “Lord, can I marry this man and have him wash my hair forever in our home?” More like I begged Him.

But I was met with silence, no response from the Holy Spirit. I just succumbed and savoured the moment as water, shampoo, and his hands graced my head in sync, and my heart made a rhythm of its own.

I went about my usual activities during the week after the encounter, as if nothing had happened, occasionally thinking back to the event of that weekend. I got back from work on Thursday evening and started craving ice cream. I opened my freezer but found it empty, with zero signs of an ice cream bowl—not even one with a soup like in typical Nigerian homes.

I drove to the nearest superstore in my area, and guess who held the door open for me to walk in? You got it right— it was Mister Hair(head) Director. When I looked up and saw his beautiful eyes, I almost asked if he was also a doorman before I saw the shopping bags in his hand.

He must have been on his way out, I thought to myself. “It’s good to see you again, ma’am,” he said. “My name is Bimpe, and I’d rather you call me that,” I replied curtly. He smiled again and said, “My name is Femi.”

“Wow, I hope you don’t break hearts,” I replied sceptically, because of the “femo la la” myth.

He rolled out a hearty laughter that I was sure to have never heard, such rich masculine and lyrical laughter before, in my 27 years of life. I stood there smiling and enjoying the sound of his voice. 

At this time, we had moved toward the parking space to allow other people access to the store’s entrance.

“What do you want to buy?” he asked.

 “Ice cream,” I replied.

 “Can I take you to my favourite ice cream spot?” he asked hopefully. 

“You take ice cream?” I asked. “I very much do. Chocolate and vanilla are my favourites. I like to take it with brownies,” he supplied.

 “What a man after my heart,” I said to myself.

That night, I dialled my friend’s number as I got back to my apartment. “I’m in love!” I screamed.

 “I haven’t heard that in a while, give me the gist from the beginning,” she replied. So, I did.

“Uhmm, are you sure about this? Are you comfortable with his profession as a hairstylist?” She bombarded me with her questions.

“What’s wrong with his profession?” I asked curiously, as I hadn’t thought of it that deeply.

“Male hairstylists are known to be either gay or promiscuous in nature. You are a Christian who can’t afford to be mixed in both scenarios—A leader in church for that matter,” she opined.

“I am praying about it. I also hope that this is not the devil playing games with me. I can tell you for sure that I feel at ease with him more than any other guy I have known,” I replied and assured her to be careful.

Femi and I went on several dates after that, and I got to know that he is actually a Christian and a leader in his church as well, which is evident in the manner at which he cares for people.

 I also got to know why he chose hairstyling as his profession: he had been in love with hair from his days as a boy. He grew up in the midst of three females—his mom and siblings. They made him unweave their hair, and as time went on, he fell in love with hair making.

He is kind, reserved, listens keenly to both my nonsensical and sensible discussions—a man who can’t stand my discomfort. After meeting a few of his friends and family, I was convinced that we were meant for each other.

He became my boyfriend, we got engaged after six months, and a year down the line, my husband.

We have two beautiful hairy daughters, and he makes our hair indoor because we created a salon in our home. It’s been a beautiful journey, and I’m grateful to God for making it possible.

As the years went by, our relationship grew stronger in love, and our home became a haven of joy and laughter. Femi’s skills as a hairstylist continued to flourish, and he even started offering online tutorials, gaining a significant audience.

 I supported him wholeheartedly, and our salon at home became a place not only for hair care but also for personal growth and inspiration.

One day, after we got back from church, Femi received an email that caught his attention. It was an invitation to an international hair styling competition—an event that could potentially propel his career to new heights. I noticed the mixture of excitement and uncertainty on his face as he read the email.

“Femi, what’s wrong?” I was concerned.

He looked up, his eyes filled with a combination of hope and anxiety. “Bimpe, this is an opportunity of a lifetime. The competition could give me a chance to showcase my skills on a global platform. But it’s in another country, and I’m not sure how we’ll manage with the kids and everything.”

I smiled warmly, snaking my hands around his neck. “Femi, we’ve always faced challenges together. If this is your dream, then we’ll find a way to make it work. We can’t let fear hold us back.”

I felt his heart swell with gratitude for my understanding and support as he gave me a tight hug. We decided to take the leap and embrace the opportunity, even though it meant adjusting our routines and temporarily moving to a new country.

The days leading up to the competition were filled with intense preparation and emotions. Femi poured his heart into creating innovative styles that showcased his unique artistic flair. I helped him refine his ideas and offered encouragement during moments of self-doubt.

The day of the competition arrived, and Femi stood backstage. I could sense his excitement and nervousness as he stepped onto the stage. The spotlight was on him, and he began transforming hair into a breathtaking masterpiece. The crowd watched in awe as he worked his magic, each strand of hair he touched telling his story of creativity and passion.

When the competition concluded, Femi’s work was met with thunderous applause. The judges praised his innovation, technique, and Afrocentric approach. As he stood on the podium to accept his award, I locked eyes with him from the audience, and I gave him a beaming smile laced with pride.

Back home, Femi’s victory marked a new chapter in our lives. His career flourished, and our salon at home became renowned not only for hair styling but also as a hub of inspiration for aspiring artists. Our daughters grew up in an environment that celebrated love, creativity, hard work, and the power of dreams.

We sat on our porch, watching the sunset together. The wind carried memories of our journey—the chance encounter at the salon, the initial awkwardness, the unexpected love that blossomed. Femi turned to me, his eyes twinkling with the same warmth I had seen when we first met.

“Bimpe,” he said, his voice hoarse, “you’ve been my partner in every adventure, my rock when things got tough, and the source of my inspiration. I wouldn’t be where I am today without you.”

I smiled with a full heart, “And you’ve shown me that love can come in unexpected packages. You’ve made my life a beautiful story, Femi.”

As we held hands, watching the colours of the sunset blend into the horizon, knowing that our journey was far from over. With each passing day, our love grew stronger, and our commitment to each other remained unwavering—a story of two souls who found each other amidst the chaos of life and created a love that was truly extraordinary.