Mindy Woodhead
 
 
 
I have managed to avoid getting bogged down in the gender inequality thus far by convincing myself that they are different but equal; the division of roles is strict, but each has pros and cons. Today I had a break-through in my frustration with women scurrying in the shadows and men running amuck. The men walk, shop, and sit in cafes on the main street, and the women walk and shop on the back streets. I frequent both, figuring the quickest way for everyone to get good and used to me is through exposure. I am sure this heightened attention to the gender gap is because I am on my own now, and seeing things objectively, or maybe not; perhaps I now see things more skewed from a western angle. I’m sure I will be able to return to my bubble of security and faith in the culture that has adopted me. I get sideswiped by cultural differences in the most unlikely of situations, though. I have been trying to get a hair cut for the last few weeks. Women here cover their hair once they get married. They cover everything, really. Enormous sheets cover everything but their eyes, and some only reveal one eye. Even the young girls typically cover their hair, which I’m sure means female hairdressers have a dearth of clients. I have seen two salons for women in town. I was told I would know the salon was for women if there was a picture of a woman outside, and you couldn’t see inside. Both the salons have been closed and locked. After trying them at various days and times, I started asking the people walking around if they knew how I could get a hold of the hairdresser. The first one I got in touch with, came walking up from her house and opened the salon, pulling up chair for us to sit and chat. Only in Morocco and Southern California do people tell you all their personal gossip as an introduction. I was amazed when I first moved to the East Coast how long it took to get to know people. After about 15 minutes of chatting, and being privy to every sordid and juicy detail of her life and everyone in her family, I asked if she would cut my hair. She said I would have to come back in 4 hours, but first come to her house with her. It is not in my nature to accept such invitations, but here it is very rude to refuse them. So I followed her down the alley and into her home. She showed me around, and through a tutorial of pictures, then let me leave after one cup of tea, which was gracious on her part. I returned to the salon for my haircut at the appointed time. After a while I called her phone, “Come over!” She said. I said. “I’ll be waiting at the salon.” She finally arrived, pulling up seats for us both. I gently explained that I had a lot to do that afternoon, and really did want to get my haircut. She fumbled about the shop and sprayed a little water over me, misting my face as much as my hair. The scissors weren’t so sharp that they’d cut paper, and she had to fold my hair over one of the blades and gnaw away with the other. What can you do at that point? My tactic was to sit and panic and pray for it to all end soon. She got all set up to blow-dry my hair. My hair that never got wet. I assured her, in a very nice breathless way, that I would prefer she didn’t; that I really needed to go. But it must get a blow-dry after a cut, she insisted. I was trying to get my jacket on and assure her that I would be showering when I got home. ‘You didn’t shower before?’ ‘Well, in America,’ playing naïve, ‘they wash your hair at the salon before cutting it.’ ‘That’s why you should have come over, to take a shower at my house before I cut your hair!’ Hmm. I assured her that I would the next time, for sure. She tried to come with me, as I couldn’t possibly want to be alone in that apartment of mine. She would help me do whatever I was heading off to do. ‘I really like to be alone,’ I tried to explain while still maintaining a very sweet tone. She said I really must come and spend the night sometime. Luckily, I had just had a conversation with a nearby volunteer in which she explained that one of the girls who lived in my site before only spent a few nights a week at her own apartment. In the Moroccan culture no one sleeps alone, everyone tends to sleep in the same room. So I only snickered a little at my hairdresser asking me to stay the night, and I eventually got out of there and on my way…alone. So much for haircuts here. I haven’t heard the call to prayer for weeks. I am sure they haven’t stopped happening five times a day, I must be desensitized to the sound now. It is a shame really, I rather enjoyed them.
Unlikely Stalker
Thursday, January 31, 2008