You Know You’re In A Namibian Hair Salon If..

You’ve been listening to the same seven gospel or R&B songs for the last eight hours.

You made an appointment for 8am but your hairdresser still has you in the wait queue come midday news.

You’ve brought enough food and water to survive a major natural disaster.

A roaming vendor just tried to sell you airtime, chewing gum and a hardboiled egg.

A women three chairs over kept her weave in too long and is being lectured about the struggle for edges.

You called your stylist, she said she was free but you rock up to find her busy with braid 1 of 90.

You’ve read three magazines first published in the early 90s.

You’ve made eye contact with a woman in the mirror and shared a grimace about cornrows so tight they’re given you an unsolicited facelift.

You’ve watched a chicken drumstick travel from stylist to stylist and politely declined an offer to chew on the bone.

You’ve had to decide whether insisting a stylist wash her hands is worth leaving looking like Moses came for your middle parting.

You’ve accepted that chicken oil and slap chips’ grease may actually be good for your hair.

You walked in an average citizen but have been promoted to deputy hairdresser. Duties: braid separating, braid holding, braid finishing…errr…braiding.

You have bribe biltong in your bag in case your hairdresser gets any funny ideas about leaving you for a quick wash and blow.

 You’re sitting with your hair half done while your hairdresser steps out to buy phone  credit.

You’re sitting with your hair half done and you’re hairdresser has been missing for days.

You’re sitting with your hair half done and your hairdresser has left you to get her lashes done two seats over.

A woman off the street just ran her hands through your hair without so much as a hallo.

A woman without edges just tried to sell you a miracle hair growth serum.

A woman walked in with hair like Cardi B and everyone’s touching it like it grants wishes.

The woman to your right would be on fire if relaxer burns had flames.

Your stylist just apologized for the lack of hot water.

Your stylist just asked if she could use your phone charger.

Your stylist just asked if you can send her two dollars phone credit.

You’re getting used to the smell of shampoo, hot chips and burning hair.

You were on the brink of dozing off before a head drop almost pulled a hair out your skull.

A hairdresser to your right is trying to cornrow a buzz cut.

A hairdresser to your left is telling you what a lying, cheating bastard her boyfriend is.

Someone is sweeping in every second of every hour. And yet…

You slipped on a rogue tuft of afro puff and almost broke your neck on the way in.

The hairdresser to your left and the one to your right are five (sole) working basin brawls from a knife fight.

A woman just thanked a stylist for her services but is looking in the mirror like she wants to go back in time.

A woman who didn’t bring enough hair is eyeing your bundles like you’ll be missing a few strands when you get back from your hair wash.

A stylist a chair over is accepting a someone’s argument about the price with a look that says: “Just let me see your ass in the street.”

A white guy is stress-grinning at the barber under a poster that says “Dark & Lovely”.

A woman just left looking like Beyoncé.

Her friend just left looking like the struggle was and continues to be real.