A day at the Saloon

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My first week in Kigali, whether a passenger in a moto, a bus or a taxi, I was whisked through the streets with wide eyes and an open mind for all I might see. Hustlers on every street corner selling anything from a phone call, to a belt, to a brand new kitchen knife set. Why would one ever need to enter a store again and look for items when they can come to you…

But not everything is on the street. I noticed that out of the many stores that seemed to be only a background to the transient sellers on the street, I saw many signs painted onto the front of the building that read the same thing.

“Saloon.”

Saloon after saloon. One after the other, like a huge country western film set.

I had yet to go out to the many night clubs Kigali has to offer, and so I believed that these saloons were the local watering holes. I imagined beyond the wooden swinging doors, to a smoky, barren room with only a few tables and rickety chairs, an old beer fridge and maybe a transistor radio playing some crackly tunes in the corner. A disinterested beer maid among a slew of local regulars.

I asked someone who has lived here for a bit what the best saloon was to go and get a drink. Is there a good one near our house to have a few too many at?

The answer I got was a hearty chuckle followed by an explanation of what these saloons really were.

Beauty parlours. Salons.

That makes far more sense, as Rwanda presents itself more as a nation full of women with beautifully kempt hair rather than a nation full of drunks.

I began to pay closer attention to women’s hair. The teeny tiny braids that hang loosely, the fatter braids drawn taught to the head, interesting parts and updos with the braids, twisted pieces that look like a piece of licorice, and the list does on. Women’s hairdos here are like fingerprints – you’ll never see two that are the same.

Given that my thick course hay-like hair has, for my whole life, proven to be quite unmanageable, I began to consider visiting one of these saloons.

I asked a local friend how I should go about getting my hair done. “Where do your sisters go?” I asked.

“My sister will do it for you,” he replied.

I asked where her saloon is, and he said, “her living room.”

I’ve learned through my short experience that Rwandans, when they host, are serious.

Sure enough, the next weekend I was invited to spend the day at Banura’s place in Nymirambo – a neighbourhood in Kigali that is packed with clothes shops, mosques, and you guessed it, saloons.

Turns out that my first time get my hair done would be in a more intimate setting – in my friend’s sister’s living room with more than one pair of hands helping out. (His auntie spent some time of the hair before she painted my toenails).

After watching a gospel concert DVD, a breakfast break, two films, three episodes of Desperate Housewives and a Beyonce concert, the braids were done.

My forehead felt pulled taught back – maybe these kind of braids are nature’s suggested face-lift.

“It’ll loosen by the end of the week,” Banura said, when she saw me wincing when I pulled the stray pieces in my face back into a make shift ponytail.

Speaking now at the end of the week, thankfully that’s true. Sleeping was tricky, as it trying to the moto helmets to fit me properly (I thought I was big-headed before).

But they’re here to stay for at least a month, and I feel lucky to have had the private saloon experience…

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