The Last Barbers Of Nairobi

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There is a parcel waiting at the office. It’s nearing the festive season, often there might be a parcel waiting in the office: A planner. A diary. A pen in a black velvet casing with a weight that can moor a boat. A bottle of scotch. A branded mug. They come with well wishes for the holidays and the New Year.

I unwrapped the parcel, it’s an electric clipper; a Philips Hair Clipper written “series 3000.” Silver and nude rubber. (I hear nude is now a colour). I stared at it. I thought Philips only made iron boxes and transistor radios – in the 70s. All the same this was an odd gift for Movember because this month we are supposed to be keeping hair not cutting it. Plus there was no note. I asked Fred, “who dropped off the parcel” and he shrugged his gaunt shoulders.  An hour later my mobile shivered on my desk. The lady on the line said, “That’s our Movember gift, we would like you to try the clipper and tell us what you think.” As I thought to myself: What do I know about shavers? I have never once shaved myself. (Why does that sentence sound weird?).

The art of shaving oneself died with our fathers, a time when men wore their manhood on their sleeves. When men fixed broken iron boxes and radios and were handy around the house. Now we can’t even change a flat tyre, we stand by our cars and wait for car rescue because should – God forbid – the task crease our white cotton shirts and ruin our chances of entry into the Kingdom. Shaving seemed so grown up back then, so sexy. Just how men shaved, at the sink. With a blade. An aging towel wrapped around their waist. Their chins lathered with foam, like a black Santa Claus. And we – only boys with brittle wrist bones – sat at the feet of these men and we looked up at our father’s foamy chins as they choreographed this foaming task. Manhood enticed us.  

Now we moisturise, we even know our skin type. When we forget to pack sunscreen for the coast we get our knickers in a twist, nkt! And you wonder; when did we get better than Vaseline petroleum jelly? When did we decide that our skins needed to breathe?

I told the lady on the phone that the shaver was wasted on me because I didn’t shave myself and she answered, “Oh that’s all right, you can take it to your barber and tell us what he thinks.”

Have I told you about my barber Sam? He’s a very proud, scrupulously clean, high-waist wearing Kamba man with an afro. I’ve had him for close to a decade now. I follow him wherever he goes. If he moved to Ongata Rongai and opened a small kiosk under a tree, I’d go. I didn’t take the clipper to Sam, instead I took it to a barber who has been on the grind for several decades.

I took it to one of the last barbers of Nairobi. And these men are only found in Nairobi’s downtown metropolis.

I find myself in Mfangano Street on a wet rainy morning. Nairobi’s downtown stoically grinds on under this wet downpour, treating the weather with indifference – like a lover being accorded the silent treatment. I duck in the doorway of this old barber shop with a shingle written “Karuri Salon and Kinyozi.” It’s at the junction of Sheikh Karume and Mfangano Street. My forehead is wet from the rain. Everybody turns to stare at me like I’m a black man who had stumbled into a Whites-only establishment in the dark days of colonialism. Which would be an apt analogy because Karuri Salon is as old as the hills, it opened for business just after Kenyans wrestled Kenya from the closed – fists of the white men.

It’s rundown. The first thing you see is an 80’s barber shop cliché; a poster of different hairstyles, black American hairstyles, when Eddie Murphy was considered pop culture. To the right is a massive calendar where from the top three-quarter of it is the president, in full military combat gear saluting.

The hubbub in the whole salon fizzles as I wipe my wet face and get my bearing. The chairs, with circular rings, are old. The mirrors are old. The price list pasted on the mirror, announcing that a haircut is 100 bob, is old. A hat hangs on a hook, on the wall. Next to a coat. Inside the room is a washing area, with sinks that you wouldn’t want to place your head in if they offered a remedy for a hangover. Above those sinks is a big screen brand-less TV set showing some Nigeria movie. Big women mill about saying stuff like; “Wanjiru, thabuuni wa omo ùigiitwo ha?”And “Nìkùraura mùno umùùthì.” The sound of a kettle boiling water comes from somewhere in the depths of that space. There are balls of hair on the floor. A woman lies on a bench. Maybe she’s hangover or maybe that’s her bedroom and she is yet to wake up.

At the corner of the room, against the window, sits a very old man with a big head of salt and pepper hair and snow-white sideburns. He’s wearing an old broken suit and a tie, with a knot not any bigger than a lady bird. On his feet, open sandals with socks. His eyes turn to stare at me vacantly, like the eyes of a stuffed teddy bear. I learn later that this is the Godfather, Mr. Karuri himself.  The owner. He built this place using his own hands. He has come to this shop every year, six days a week for the past 50-years and he has sat at that very corner and watched his business thrive. This is how the old folk did it; they didn’t delegate, they showed up, daily and they got it done. ‘It’s not going to get done if you don’t get it done,’ seemed to be their maxim.

A barber shuffles over to me and addresses me in Kuyu, “Úhoro wã umuuthi, ukwenjwo atia umuuthi?” I’m surprised he thinks I’m Kikuyu in total disregard of my complexion and the size of my nose. I wasn’t even in a checked shirt. Still.

I tell him I want to talk. I can’t explain to him what a blog is, so I tell him I’m a journalist. I catch a brief flinch on his face, that fleeting shadow of suspicion. I tell him I’m there to celebrate the work they do and I need to talk to someone who has been doing the job for many years. He says he’s the man. I ease onto the only chair without a human being, it creaks under my weight. An arm’s length away, the Godfather ignores me, staring out the window to the rainy streets outside.

The barber is called John Kamau, 60-years of age and has been shaving for 40 of those. He’s one of the last barbers of Nairobi. He started shaving at a time when hair on a man’s face discredited his morals and values. A time when the nation was just coming out of that colonial era when men had to be clean shaven, a time when hair bespoke dirt and – worse – revolt against the regime.

He says in the 80s only two types of men had the chicks pulling power; taxi drivers and barbers. (By the way you have to read this story in a Kikuyu accent, otherwise the personality of Kamau will be lost). “We had money,” he gloats. “Women loved taxi drivers because they had cars and us because we took care of ourselves; we were neat, well-groomed and smelled good.” He calls it ‘ustaarabu’. “Tulikuwa na ustaarabu sana.” Boy, don’t I love that word ustaarabu. If words wore bow ties, this word would have a red one.

Kama msichana alipata Kinyozi, alikuwa na starehe,” he reminisces, “ulikuwa unakula tu kanyama kila siku.” Yeah, meat has always been big then, I guess. Not shisha. Or fish fingers. Men bought women meat. And drove them in a car. Goodness, now we literally have to look like Idris Elba and spend like a black rapper. Talking of cars; I’d kill to know how many cars were in Nairobi in 1980. And if there was a single one that was tinted. I’m fascinated by the tint on cars. When did it start and why? Does anyone know?

He said in the 80s men who shaved their beards channel O style were ladies men. I asked why and he said, because that style resembled a woman’s private parts. I was like, “What?” He said yeah, if you walked into a barber shop and you had channel O as they called it, they immediately knew you were a casanova. He actually called it “casanova” and that song by Ultimate Kaos that goes “I’m not your casanova/ Me and Romeo never been friends,” started playing in my head. I resisted tapping my feet as he spoke.  In fact, his exact words: (And please read it in a half-Kikuyu accent). “Sisi tulijua hao casanova vile walinyoa ndevu kama sehemu ya kina mama.” And he said it with a straight face as I arched an eyebrow.  I thought I had misinterpreted what he meant and I wanted to ask, “sehemu ipi?” just so that I can pretend that I’m so versed in swahili that I didn’t say sehemu gani.

I didn’t want to discuss that kind of thing with a 60-year old, so I asked him the most important question: why and how does one do the same job for 40-years? How does one come in the same building, the same street, and work in the same room for 40-years, shaving other men?

He talked about how the streets had changed and how people had changed with them. How there were countable cars that parked in the street at any given time and the men who stepped out of them always had a tie, or sometimes smoked a pipe. He talked about how capitalism had also brought vice to the streets, and competition and nastiness. He said how as the streets grew busier, genuine human interaction disintegrated, how people had less time for greetings and for warmth, for instance, and Nairobi became this beast right before his eyes.  But that also meant, he admitted, more money in his pocket.

His reason – the nugget – for shaving for 40 years is almost disappointing; because he loves it, he says. And he’s good at it. He’s shaved people who have long died, people who married and brought their children there. He shaved people who left to go abroad and when they came back, looked for him and were overjoyed to find him there. He shaved men who fell from grace and men who rose to grace. He has shaved men who never spoke a word on the seat and men who wouldn’t shut up. Many heads of different shapes and sizes. He shaved heads that held dreams and heads with dead dreams. He shaved when men had a cut across their hairline. He shaved and paid dowry for his wife with it and later schooled his three daughters all who are now married.

I ask him if it gets boring, coming here every day and touching men’s heads. He says boredom is for those who don’t respect their work. I want to crawl under a chair for asking such a flippant question. He also said something that we all know, but that we ignore; that you can’t muster what you do if you are not consistent. That the most important thing about work is to show up. You show up on days that you don’t feel like and you shave heads. You show up on days that you are sad or broke, or distracted by domestics or when rent is due or when your team has lost a match or your heart is broken or you are fearful of your future or days that life doesn’t make sense, days filled with lemons, and days that the sun is up and it’s gorgeous, you come when it rains like it’s raining today and you work. Because people want to work with consistent people, he told me, because with consistent people you know they will always be there, even if they aren’t there physically.

I ask to see his shaver and he retrieves this old silver shaver and hands it to me like you would your newborn baby. I weigh it in my hands. It doesn’t have a brand so I ask him what brand it is and he calls out to some lady at the sink, a big lady with a tough look and asks what shaver this is and she says, a Wahl Balding. Only she doesn’t pronounce Wahl as Wahl, she says, “Wow Balding”.  He says he likes it because it’s reliable. It shows up.

I hand him the Philips 3000 series shaver and he looks at it like it’s an IED and it’s about to explode. He slowly turns it over in his hands, studying it with his 80’s eye. I’m not sure if he’s wary or cynical or curious. Then he slowly plugs it in the power and it whirs hungrily like a starved engine. I ask needily, “What do you think?” Everybody in the barber shop is looking at us, convinced I’m selling shavers.

Later I ask him if I can speak to the Godfather because he didn’t have the stature of someone you just walked up to and strike a conversation with; he was regal and stately and he charged the air around him with reverence. He inspired protocol. Some form of order. The kind of guy you removed your hat to speak to. I felt inadequately dressed to even stand before him.

He looked at me and shook his head, “wazee kama hao wanapenda starehe zao,” he says, “hapendi mambo mingi.”

I took my shaver and I stepped back into 2016.

PS: The 10th Writing Masterclass is opened for registration now.

Email [email protected] and reserve a slot. It’s on 7th to 9th December.

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148 Comments
  1. Showing up everyday whether you are sad or broke…I have really come to value showing up at my work place, social circles and curch.

  2. Nothing ever beats the elegance and oopmh of a well shaven man! Classy! Here’s to all the barbers, thanks from a very appreciative female!

  3. Nice read and wonderful reminders on work ethic. Just as you took your shaver and steped back into 2016, i have just taken my cue to pick up the lemons in my office and be consistent.

  4. Astounding consistency. And now after this movember is over Imma shave my beard channel 0 style. Yeah, I’m going to at least try the Casanova thing.

    1. Then you must visit this particular barber shop. otherwise you might end up with something that may not be what you expected.

  5. I just died at ….”Sisi tulijua hao casanova vile walinyoa ndevu kama sehemu ya kina mama.” after reading it in a Kikuyu accent! Lmao
    http://www.treatsonabudget.co.ke

    1. Inside the room is a washing area, with sinks that you wouldn’t want to place your head in if they offered a remedy for a hangover. Above those sinks is a big screen brand-less TV set showing some Nigeria movie. Big women mill about saying stuff like; “Wanjiru, thabuuni wa omo ùigiitwo ha?”And “Nìkùraura mùno umùùthì.” This made my day. I bust out laughing especially once you add the Kyuk accent!! Nailed it!!

  6. Nice post.

    So, did you use the Phillips shaver?
    Did you leave it somewhere on a shelf because “Barber” Yao recognizes only Wow Balding?

    The suspense!

    https://thispostisabout.wordpress.com

  7. “I’m surprised he thinks I’m Kikuyu in total disregard of my complexion and the size of my nose. I wasn’t even in a checked shirt. Still” hehe

  8. If words wore bow ties, this word would have a red one….

    Window tinting started in Trumpland around the time of WWII. Cars were tinted from the factory although some people would pull off a DIY tint job using spray-on tinting before window film was invented in 1966.
    The film started off as “dye-based,” which would absorb heat into the vehicle, rather than reflect it back. It would turn purple and bubbly in the sun.

  9. Hahahaha. so funny. Nice read for sure. Barber’s always know everything that goes on in town. Don’t they? I have had the same barber for close to 5 years now. Every time he starts a conversation with “By the way ” I know he wants to ask me personal stuff.

  10. I wish you stayed and listened to Karuris story. It’s mind boggling, emphatic and most of all a story of hope in the midst of hopelessness and betrayal…

          1. The shaver was probably to be presented to the Grand Barber but since “hapendi mambo mingi”, he lost out.

  11. People want to work with consistent people, he told me, because with consistent people you know they will always be there, even if they aren’t there physically.Great take out!!

  12. Quite tempting to tell this to my barber “Kama msichana alipata Kinyozi, alikuwa na starehe,” he reminisces, “ulikuwa unakula tu kanyama kila siku.”only that I will never hear the end of it.
    www.shesatomboy.net

  13. Biko, between the time you handed him the shaver and when you stood up to leave, what happened? What was his take on the Philips machines? Please, do tell, in sadness.

  14. “He says boredom is for those who don’t respect their work. I want to crawl under a chair for asking such a flippant question.” This cracked me up hahahaha. When talking to old people (above 39, no feelings Biko), you cannot ask questions inclined to feelings. Its like asking them, “are you happy?” To them, feelings is for pansies.

  15. either Biko has turned kikuyu on us, lost a forehead and acquired a nose or we finally have someone who could replace him and we would know and not bitch about it. this was a good read.

  16. I love the way you write in Kikuyu. You should do a full story in Kikuyu sometime. Ùgatwandíkíra rí karùgano ga gikùyù?

  17. oh my goodness it really was like stepping back in time..and Ultimate Kaos, what does that say about me that I didn’t read it as “chaos”?? superb, especially the kenyanisms sprinkled about.

    I’m curious as to what he said about the Phillips 3000

  18. Boredom is for those who don’t respect their work…..That the most important thing about work is to show up. You show up on days that you don’t feel like, You show up on days that you are sad or broke, or distracted by domestics or when rent is due or when your team has lost a match or your heart is broken or you are fearful of your future or days that life doesn’t make sense, days that the sun is up and it’s gorgeous, you come when it rains like it’s raining today and you work. Because people want to work with consistent people, he told me, because with consistent people you know they will always be there…..#inspired

  19. hahaha…you’re always on Fred’s case.
    “The art of shaving oneself died with our fathers, a time when men wore their manhood on their sleeves. When men fixed broken iron boxes and radios and were handy around the house. Now we can’t even change a flat tyre..” ..In many parts of the world, men are still men doubling up as the handyman in the house, or on the road and when you have no man, you just have to be the man and grab the paint brush and paint the house, pop the bonnet and fix that which is amiss, or repair that kitchen cabinet..
    Speaking of barbers and shaving heads of hair, the Indian barbers of Kuala Lumpur are In a class of their own. They don’t mind that a lady has walked in, they not only shave the head but give some sort of skull, neck and shoulder massage that feels ticklish and has one cackling away. Best of all, costs just a few ringitts. Should be on every guy’s bucket list. “Having a shave in South East Asia”

  20. if Movemember gift is not a typographical error it surely is a pun pregnant with meaning
    beyond that which is hidden in the sleeves!

  21. Waa, so I am a woman and one of the last few that shave their own heads. Every Saturday without fail about 3pm Ill be in front of my mirror doing the deed. And I have done it and done it well for about 6 years now.

  22. Quite descriptive, I could see every corner of that shop through your writing.

    About ‘kula nyama kila siku’ hehe. You’d be shocked at the dummy laugh it go me into until I read a bit futher. Hehe.

  23. Time stood still in that barbershop…never have I seen a young/er barber there. They hold a wealth of history and wisdom…you can see it in their eyes…and just like that your new age Phillips shaver was disregarded…

  24. You can’t muster what you do if you are not consistent. The most important thing about work is to show up. People like working with consistency.
    PS: whatever happened to the Philips 3000

  25. Consistency. You show up when its rainy,sunny,and when you are happy, bored, sad or depressed. I’m learning to do that with my blog..to never fail to show up

  26. …what a gem – “you can’t muster what you do if you are not consistent”! Simple but apt. Want to keep nibbling at this morsel.

  27. Nice read,eti sehemu za wamama ni za wastaarabu? LoL! I’ve had the same barber for over 18years now, at one time his business collapsed and I still went to his residence for hair cut at the verandah while holding an large ill-shaped mirror just to avoid a new barber giving me a hair cut that I’ll regret

  28. What an catchy read, and that Barber has the wisdom. 40 years’ experience is no joke – and all you have to do is to show up! My take home: Be consistent.
    This is funny, “Many heads of different shapes and sizes. He shaved heads that held dreams and heads with dead dreams.”

  29. is this blog going to be about adverts now.sigh!i really crave reading something deep and profound and of literally significance.

  30. I love the description. So vivid I can picture out how Karuri’s barber shop look like. And the words of the barber himself: full of wisdom n inspiration.
    Btw Biko what did he think of the Philips 3000?
    Should have gifted him the thing seeing its useless to you

  31. That sounded like the rendition of barber shop 2016. Karuri is Cedric the entertainer, the ”wow bald” lady is Nicki minaj.

  32. he was regal and stately and he charged the air around him with reverence. He inspired protocol. Some form of order. The kind of guy you removed your hat to speak to.wow

  33. Of Channel O being the casanovas badge! But where did daddy’s shaving foam and aftershave go? I remember growing up and on one unmaned afternoon, climbed up the bathroom, foamed my chin, and slid on that razor like daddy always did. My ass was on fire from the beating and i scarred for a long long while.
    .

  34. Later I ask him if I can speak to the
    Godfather because he didn’t have the
    stature of someone you just walked up to
    and strike a conversation with; he was
    regal and stately and he charged the air
    around him with reverence. He inspired
    protocol. Some form of order. The kind of
    guy you removed your hat to speak to. I
    felt inadequately dressed to even stand
    before him.
    He looked at me and shook his head,
    “wazee kama hao wanapenda starehe zao,”
    he says, “hapendi mambo mingi.”

    That one killed it. I cannot hold despite the silence in this library

  35. To Philips, you will only succeed in this market if your clipper is dependable as that Barber’s model. Market it to the barbers though; you already heard that self-shaving is long dead

  36. Ati that channel o style resembles our private parts, hehehe, haki people overthink things. Hilarious article. You mean the barber declined your shaver? Some people are so set in their ways, try your barber.

  37. When you left, they must have said “Iyo kanda mujaluo yona tu irehe kamacini kau haha, niwamenya uria mendete indo njeru we? hehehehe

  38. I dedicate this masterpiece to my barber #Smoother.
    Deep lessons to learn from this piece too. “That the
    most important thing about work is to show up.”

  39. I just asked my mum if she knows Karuri Salon and Kinyozi,turns out it’s the first salon she ever went to in Nairobi, 22nd December 1984 “nikiwa manyanga” she says

  40. Did he take the shaver? What was the Philips shaver recommendation? Did he like it. And Biko, i am not impressed nowadays, the content did not bring out a theme

  41. This is a especially good read.its unfortunate you never got to speak to the godfather but hey, the message showed up.
    Please also where is the shaver?

  42. I love speaking to older people (60 and above). So many Stories die with older relatives. And because our African culture is oratory, we don’t have books to refer to after our loved ones are gone.

  43. Good one, thank you being consistent, tuesdays locked down kabisa. Hehehe so many wise things taken down in here. The suspense though? What happened?

  44. I was like, “What?” He said yeah, if you walked into a barber shop and you had channel O as they called it, they immediately knew you were a casanova. He actually called it “casanova” ……..I didn’t know… Hahaa you killed it!

  45. My dad used to take me to get a haircut at that barbershop back in the day. Typical no frills haircuts before you could get a massage and a pedicure in a barbershop.

  46. Jenny..you knocked it…what they said about Biko after he left…. Waiting to read the “Godfather’s” story when Biko writes it!

  47. everytime i shave elsewhere, i get this feeling, its like am cheating on my barber and in most instances they(new barbers)give me a bad shave.

  48. I know this Karuri guy. Even at home he is known as Karuri Saloon. And the guy is rich. You should see his house back at home. It’s a bungalow. An interesting piece of ink as always.

  49. It really is about showing up.
    So why not show up for The Turkana Bus
    The original run in the 80s.Growing up my granny used to tell me about it all the time.
    Her nostalgia was so palpable.
    I always thought it a joke or a one off trip. Turns out it existed!
    Click on my name and check it out. The link to a thread about the original is in that page somewhere

  50. Later I ask him if I can speak to the Godfather because he didn’t have the stature of someone you just walked up to and strike a conversation with; he was regal and stately and he charged the air around him with reverence. He inspired protocol. Some form of order. The kind of guy you removed your hat to speak to. I felt inadequately dressed to even stand before him.

    He looked at me and shook his head, “wazee kama hao wanapenda starehe zao,” he says, “hapendi mambo mingi.”
    You do not fool around with this type.

  51. I like how the comment section is filed with phrase after phrase quotations of the entire story. Thumbs-up for you well told story. The description is so vivid and captivating. Thumbs up once more.

  52. He also said something that we all know, but that we ignore; that you can’t muster what you do if you are not consistent. That the most important thing about work is to show up. You show up on days that you don’t feel like and you shave heads. You show up on days that you are sad or broke, or distracted by domestics or when rent is due or when your team has lost a match or your heart is broken or you are fearful of your future or days that life doesn’t make sense, days filled with lemons, and days that the sun is up and it’s gorgeous, you come when it rains like it’s raining today and you work.I promise myself to always show up.Thanks Biko for this message,it’s so timely!

  53. Beautiful read that ! Just showing up is my take from it. I wonder how old that Wow Balding shaver was and if it was the property of Karuri Barber Shop or personal property of the barber you spoke to.

  54. That the most important thing about work is to show up. You show up on days that you don’t feel like and you shave heads. You show up on days that you are sad or broke, or distracted by domestics or when rent is due or when your team has lost a match or your heart is broken or you are fearful of your future or days that life doesn’t make sense,…

    It’s my value that I empress every morning whenever I have a lecture. You left me in suspense Biko.

  55. I love this bit:
    He also said something that we all know, but that we ignore; that you can’t muster what you do if you are not consistent. That the most important thing about work is to show up. You show up on days that you don’t feel like and you shave heads. You show up on days that you are sad or broke, or distracted by domestics or when rent is due or when your team has lost a match or your heart is broken or you are fearful of your future or days that life doesn’t make sense, days filled with lemons, and days that the sun is up and it’s gorgeous, you come when it rains like it’s raining today and you work. Because people want to work with consistent people, he told me, because with consistent people you know they will always be there, even if they aren’t there physically.