The Hairdresser Beside Queen Idia Hostel, University of Ibadan
A heartwarming discussion about a fulfilling profession of a lifetime.
Note: The discussion/interview that led to this piece was originally done in Yoruba. For publication in Hidden Gele Journal, it was translated into English.
When I newly arrived at the University of Ibadan as a Master’s student of Peace and Conflict Studies, I had on long braids in burgundy. The hairstyle was convenient enough and it lasted me a while before I had to loosen it and make another hairstyle. That is when I met the hairdresser beside Queen Idia Hostel, University of Ibadan. Whenever I passed by, I would see her with a young girl I later found out to be her daughter and a young man who was her son. She was always at her corner making different hairstyles for different young ladies I assumed to be from Queen Idia Hostel, and sometimes she’d sit down with her children waiting for a customer to come in.
The first time I went there, I had to do cornrows. She did it wonderfully. Afterwards, I saw the Ghana weaving hairstyle the daughter had on and it caught my eye. I asked the hairdresser if she did it and she replied yes. I asked if I could do the same, and she answered why not. I responded that after I loosened the cornrows I had just done, I would consider Ghana weaving. She told me no problem at all. By two weeks later, the cornrows had gotten rough and became too ghastly to be taken out and seen on a person’s head. I went back to her to make another and not the Ghana weaving I had planned because I could not afford to make the Ghana weaving hairstyle at that time. A year went by and she remained my trusted hairdresser, however, I only did cornrows with her. Whenever I visited her to do my hair, I rarely sat in silence. We would talk about Yoruba proverbs and adages. She taught me how to recite one to ten in the native Yoruba way:
1.Eni bi eni 2. Eji bi eji 3. Eta ntagba 4. Erin woroko 5. Arun ngbodo 6. Efa ti ele 7. Boro Boro 8. Ero n ba ja 9. Mobalakesan 10. Gbangban lewa
At another time, I played Ijo Fuji by Adewale Ayuba and we all sang along joyfully—myself, the hairdresser, together with her son and daughter.
However, late last year, 2023, around July, I decided to cut my hair. That meant I would no longer do my hair with my hairdresser. Nonetheless, whenever I passed by her corner, I would greet her and wait for little discussions with her before moving on to my hostel. When her son started to do manicures and pedicures, I patronized him and I got a set of red nails that suited me well enough.
In January, this year 2024, I decided to start growing my hair again. However, I realized that it was shedding. My entire room would be littered with curls of hair and it became exhausting to keep sweeping, also I was worried about becoming bald ( a dramatic worry because it was quite unlikely). Nevertheless, I decided to cast my hair in a protective style—cornrows preferably— because I didn't want to wake up on a Wednesday afternoon bald. I spoke to her about it and we agreed on a day and time when I could do my hair.
On Tuesday, March 12th, at about 1:15 pm, I headed to her corner and I took my Tcb Naturals hair cream along. When I got to her corner—a small space under a sack canopy that contained 3 chairs, a table, and a rack with handmade sandals that were displayed for sale—which directly faced Queen Idia hostel, I sat down and brought out my hair cream. She combed my short, curly hair—painfully—and went to stand in front of me to start making my hair. Seeing that, I told her I didn't want Didi, I preferred weaving. She replied okay and went behind me to pick my hair to start weaving it.
Didi is a type of cornrow. The longer name is ‘Aladiseyin’, which means plaited to the back. Didi is styled differently from weaving (the other type of cornrow). For Didi, the hairdresser stands in front of the customer and plaits her hair from the front to the back. The hair is held in two and then intersected to the back. The outcome is cornrows that are inverted. Didi is the traditional Yoruba hairstyle and is commonly found in old women. The hairdresser later informed me that when she was younger, it was a beauty error for young ladies to be seen with Didi because they saw it as an old woman's hairstyle and none of the young ladies wanted to be associated with the hairstyle. However, she observed that, these days, it is commonly done by young ladies and it is no longer considered an old woman's hairstyle or the young ladies of these days simply don't care.
Weaving, on the other hand, is the modern form of cornrow. It is the style that makes Ghana weaving—what makes it Ghana is the addition of attachment and the style of adding the attachment. To weave, the hairdresser stands behind the customer—this is the most common method of hairdressing—and weaves her hair down to the back. The outcome is cornrows that are outward.
As the hairdresser beside the Queen Idia Hostel, University of Ibadan worked on the third row of my hair, I seized the opportunity to ask her if I could engage her in a conversation about her profession. She laughed and answered yes. I proceeded to ask her how she learnt hairdressing.
“I learnt how to make hair when I was in sisi, when I was omoge,” she started with her response. “I decided to learn it because it was a good skill and I loved it and I wanted to do it for life.”
I asked her where she learnt it, and if it was also in Ìbàdàn where she currently worked.
“Yes, I learnt it here in Ìbàdàn. I am from Ìbàdàn, Idi ape. In my childhood, my parents noticed I knew how to make hair because I was always doing the hair of the women in our neighborhood. And in those days, parents pushed their children toward what they were best at. So, when they saw how I was picking up hairdressing, they decided to sponsor me to learn at a professional salon.”
“I learnt it in a fine place,” she continued. “I remember my boss had a lot of fine tools for doing hair. I started learning in 1993 and in two years, I was done. I am happy I could learn hairdressing because having a hand skill is better than setting up a trade. Hand skills are always functional. Hairdressing is a hand skill, tailoring is a hand skill, carpentry is also a hand skill.”
As she combed my hair and I felt tears in my eyes from the pain while asking her to be gentle, I asked her what her experience was as a young girl learning hairdressing.
“It was okay. One time, my boss insulted me saying I was slow with a customer’s hair but she later apologized.”
My mind went to a habit I had noticed amongst hairdressers and I asked her about it; the culture of hairdressers and apprentices standing for hours. I asked why the apprentices couldn't sit down since they were not the ones making the hair, they were just passing attachment.
“The omo ise (apprentice) can't sit while the oga is standing. It is not possible,” she responded. “They have to stand with the oga. It is also training them to learn how to stand for hours because it is integral to the profession of hairdressing.”
I told her I observed the apprentices couldn't use their phones while working too.
“Phone? No, not at all. They dare not use it.”
I said wow. Then I asked her if she had always lived in Ìbàdàn.
“I got married inside the University of Ibadan. I met my husband through an alarina (intermediary) who was my friend. In those days, couples didn't meet as boldly and as openly as they do now, they met through an intermediary. My husband and I communicated through my friend and whenever he wanted to see me, he would tell my friend who would ask him to come to her house and there, we would see. My husband and I met inside the University of Ibadan too,” she finished with a laugh.
I smiled too and I told her about my Yoruba class in secondary school where I was taught that, in those days, lovers met under a fig tree (igi odan) to woo one another. She affirmed it and laughed again. I asked her how long she had been a hairdresser.
“I have been a hairdresser for about 40 years now. It is the only work I know. Before I came here to work beside the Queen Idia Hostel because I enjoy the open space, I used to have a big shop in Agbowo where I had more customers than I do here and I had freedom for 4 apprentices. I used to be able to stand for 10-12 hours in those days, but not anymore. I can barely stand for 5 hours now.”
I asked her if she remembered her hairdressing freedom from her boss. She laughed and said I would get her cold minerals for the questions I kept asking her. I laughed softly and replied no problem.
“I remember my freedom,” she started. “After my family and I got to my boss’s place that day, they complained that we were late and we had to pay a fine. We did. For the freedom ceremony and prayers, we bought Ireke, Adun, Oyin, Obi, Sugar, Iyo, Ilarun, Dryer, and Rollers. I knelt and my boss and her family prayed for me and I became free. My boss kept the food items while I took the hairdressing tools back home.”
I told her I had also witnessed freedom before. My mom was a tailor, and I was at the freedom ceremony of one of her apprentices, Aunty Iyabo. She knelt too and my mom, dad, and grandmother prayed for her.
“Yes, yes, that is how it is done. After my freedom, I took one of the shops in my parents’ house and turned it into my hairdressing salon. I used to make hair for all the omoge and sisi in the street then. During festive periods, they would argue and argue over who came first and who I must attend first.”
That must be a fun experience, I noted. She replied that it was. I told her about the convenience of not having to look for a shop to rent because there was one in her parents’ house already. I mentioned that I observed the houses built these days didn't bother adding shops as a part of the building anymore. I told her my house and all the houses in my street have inbuilt shops.
“Yes, yes, you are right. I noticed it too,” she responded.
I became curious about the prices she did hair then and I asked her.
“I made weaving for ₦15 and fixing for ₦20. The most expensive hair I did was ₦30.”
I concluded that ₦10,000 must be a lot of money then.
“It was a huge amount of money. My parents bought land for ₦1,500 then. ₦10,000 was gold money.”
I replied that it was a pity how far Naira had depreciated. Then I proceeded to ask her about the fulfillment she gets from the profession of hairdressing.
“I like the beauty aspect of it. I like that I make women beautiful. I also cherish the profession because it is a big advantage to motherhood; when a hairdresser has children, she is able to do her children's hair by herself. It is convenient and it creates a bond between mother and child. I have always been the one to make my daughters’ hair, right from when they were babies till one of them went to University. They have never made their hair elsewhere.”
I was stunned.
“I also like the profession of hairdressing because it makes a woman independent. You won't have to depend on men to give you money because there is always a means for you to earn. Hairdressing is a hand skill that is always functional, and I like it for that.”
I agreed with her.
“Again, I like hairdressing because it beautifies the head. A sè orí lẹ so. It is fulfilling to make beautiful hair for women.”
I exclaimed that I could see why she was so taken with the profession. I asked her what a sè orí lẹ so means.
“That is the proper Yoruba way to address hairdressing,” she answered. “For tailors, it is a sè ará loge. For hairdressers, it is a se ori le so.”
I responded that I had no idea. She answered that it is not a common way to address hairdressers and hairdressing and that is why she mentioned it for me to know. I replied that I was happy to know.
I asked her if there are moments when she feels unfulfilled with the profession.
“There is nothing much truly, I find hairdressing fulfilling. It is just that at times when I am tired from doing house chores, it can be a bit draining to come to work and stand for long hours. Aside from that, nothing else. However, something unpleasant is to be referred to as Onidiri. It is not the proper word to call hairdressers, the correct thing to say is Atorise. It is the old women who use steel Ilarun, who ask their customers to sit on a mat while they sit on a stool and put the customers’ heads in between their laps that are Onidiri. However, modern hairdressers who stand and don’t put customers’ heads between laps are Atorise.”
I responded that I had no idea and I had always thought Onidiri to be the Yoruba word for hairdressing. She replied that she finds it offensive to be called Onidiri.
“About a week ago, a lady called me Iya Onidiri and I quickly corrected her. I am not Onidiri. I am Atorise.”
I found it interesting to know. I also told her my grandmother used to have the steel Ilarun she was talking about. She laughed and said it used to be very common in those days.
“In fact,” she continued. “When we hairdressers are called Atorise, we respond by saying ori wa o ni buru.”
I exclaimed I had never heard of that.
“I know you haven't. It is deep, native Yoruba that is not common these days anymore. I love hairdressing. It is fulfilling.”
I agreed with her and added that hairdressing will always be a need. I asked her about old hairstyles and if she still remembers them.
“Oh yes, I do. Calabar, Equal length, Washing and Setting, Patewo, Ajalenso, Ipako Elede, Koroba, Didi.”
I responded that they must have been pleasant to do. She replied that they were indeed pleasant to do. I asked her if she had a preferred hairstyle.
“As a hairdresser, I can't have a preference. Whatever the customer demands is what I will do, I have no choice. It was during my apprenticeship days that I had the choice of deciding which style I wanted to do, especially when I became most senior, but now that I'm a boss of my own, I can't choose anymore.”
“I am thinking of retiring soon too,” she continued. “When my firstborn gives birth and I become a grandmother, I will quit hairdressing. My body is starting to react to all the years of standing for long hours. Also, I want to dedicate my time to making my granddaughter’s hair if my daughter bears a female child. My daughter is a good hairdresser too, she is better than me.”
I responded that it must be a family thing then. She answered that it was.
“And I am very grateful for this profession because it has blessed me and I am successful,” she added. “Through hairdressing, I raised all of my children and I have done many many great things. It is a successful profession of a lifetime. When I retire, I plan to open a provisions store where I can answer customers while sitting.”
I told her it was a good idea and God would continue to bless all of her efforts.
“Amen.”
A beautiful, wholesome read 👏