Dreadlocks and Kidnappings.

So I've wanted dreads for two years.

Working at a law firm? No way.
Peace Corps? Thought it was my shot, until I found myself in a conservative Muslim society in Guinea. No dreads.
Peace Corps round 2 in Botswana? Yes ... there's a thriving rasta subgroup here, I could totally pull them off "this side."

So a few months ago, I made an appointment and show up. Three hours later, the guy who was going to do them didn't show up. He had "babalas" ... AKA a killer hangover. No shame in it though- if you tell people you're hungover, then it's a legit excuse. So, no dreads.

Until today.

I found a great lady, she used to own a salon, and she said she'd do my dreads- for free! All I had to do was show up at her place at 9am today. No problem, right? I show up bright eyed for the big day (I was a little nervous) and I see her. Catherine. Bright and shining with a tye-dye dress and a frog-resembling umbrella to shield her from the sun. I didn't remember her looking so crazy. And then she says "Kiki, I promised my pastor I would meet him quickly, will you come with me and then we'll do your hair?" Sure, no problem. She had told me numerous times I had to get to her town 'early' because my hair would take a while. Then last night she specified 9am. O, how convenient, your church starts at 9am? Geez, who would have thought?

So I got kidnapped and taken to church. And no, you all know I'm not a church hater. But I WILL ADMIT to being a hater of 3-hour church services. And a pastor who screams in the mic and my ears start bleeding. And then he exorcises demons out of churchgoers and they pass out on the floor. Yes, they pass out on the floor. But it's okay, because there's a "clean-up" crew who catches the bodies, lays them on the floor, and covers them with cloth. It's like a mini-funeral, until they rise again, potentially healed, about five minutes later.

Okay, so I got taken to church until noon. Big deal. I'm alive. Until we start walking and I find out we're still not going to her house to do my hair- no, we are going grocery shopping. SERIOUSLY lady? Fine. I'll buy some milk and bread while I'm at it.

But then we get to her house, and somehow, instead of getting some sweet dreads, I'm chopping spinach and sauteeing onions. I am now cooking, while a small chicken is running between my feet. We finally eat.

So now that we've prayed, shopped, chopped and feasted I'm hoping that FINALLY NOW we can begin the long process of dreading my hair. I untie my ponytail, let my hair down, and she starts playing. Thirty seconds later she produces the first dread. 30 seconds? Geez ... I had thought this would have taken a lot longer. I look at her first piece of work- and she had taken to strands of hair and twisted them together.

WHAT?! You thought I wanted my hair twisted? I did not come to Botswana to look like Rainbow Brite. So I tell her no, DREADLOCKS! She argues a bit, tell me how hot the Rainbow Brite Twists will look, and then I say, forget it. Next time. So she wants to play with my hair anyways ... it's fine. Usually I like this lady. And before I know it here I am, not with dreads, but two beautifully childish pigtail braids.

And that is the story of how I always look so hot in the Peace Corps.