Heady revolution: From under tree kinyozi to spa

In Kenya, the modern barbershop is a striking contrast to its humble predecessor of the 1990s, the rudimentary Kinyozi, whose arsenal included little more than a pair of hand-operated clippers, a worn-out mirror, and a flywhisk.

Where today’s barber offers cappuccinos, Wi-Fi, and calming hot towel massages, the village of Kinyozi was a master of minimalist haircuts, dispensing more pain than polish.

In those days, the village barber operated under a tree, often beside a dusty path, with a mirror hung precariously on a branch.

The toolkit was modest: manual clippers, a pair of stubborn scissors, a threadbare shuka to drape over clients, a bottle of surgical spirit, and a battery-powered radio blaring rhumba.

With these, the Kinyozi was ready to prune heads with industrial efficiency.

The clippers were rarely sharpened, resulting in more tugging than trimming.

Customers would wince as the contraption pulled at their hair, sometimes scraping the scalp and drawing blood.

And yet, this was the accepted ritual of grooming, an uncomfortable, obligatory routine best endured quickly.

The styles on offer were limited, but each carried social weight.

The most common were Push Back, Forward Slope, and the notorious Shaolin, later dubbed the Jordan.

Push Back involved shaving the front of the head clean while leaving a trail of hair towards the back, while Forward Slope reversed the logic, retaining length at the front and gradually shaving down towards the neck.

The Shaolin, inspired by kung-fu films that dominated television screens, was the choice of bad boys and aspiring rebels, a crude but defiant statement of identity.

The barbers themselves were often viewed as semi-mystics, trusted by local elites but feared by children.

At the end of every session, the surgical spirit was poured over freshly shaved scalps.

It seeped into the micro-wounds left by the clippers, igniting a searing sting that made many curse the very idea of grooming.

To chase off stray hairs, barbers wielded a flywhisk in lieu of modern blowers, a delicate dance of dusting in the open air.

And yet, those under-the-tree Kinyozis represented an upgrade. For the rest of the village population, the hoi polloi, the task of haircutting often fell to siblings armed with blunt scissors.

The result was a patchy massacre of hair, a mix of furrows and ridges that turned heads, though not for the right reasons.

Fast forward to today, and one would be forgiven for thinking the barbershop has become a spa.

Millennials, raised on digital gloss and lifestyle indulgence, walk into salons that offer the full sensory package.

From complimentary coffee to free high-speed internet, the modern grooming experience begins long before the clippers touch the scalp.

Clippers today are sleek, sharp, and whisper-quiet. Barbers sanitise them diligently and prepare the scalp with antiseptic sprays before styling.

The customer is not merely shaved; they are styled, pampered, and soothed.

Beards are no longer hacked away but tamed with moisturisers and precision tweezers, sculpted under the hum of ambient music and mood lighting.

Gone is the flywhisk. In its place stands an electric blower, effortlessly sweeping away hair clippings.

After the cut, a hot towel massage taulo boilo, as it’s colloquially known, opens the pores and calms the skin.

For stubborn beard bumps, there’s exfoliation, steam treatment, and even skin-toning creams.

To complete the ritual, some upscale barbershops employ trained masseuses, ready to relax stiff necks and stressed backs.

A dab of premium aftershave marks the finale, sending customers off not just groomed but invigorated.

The transformation is nothing short of dramatic.

The modern barbershop is a temple of self-care, an aesthetic sanctuary. In contrast, the Kinyozi of old seems almost prehistoric, a well-meaning torturer armed with clippers and courage.

But perhaps there is charm in both.

The under-the-tree Kinyozi, with all his shortcomings, was a fixture of the community, a storyteller, a commentator, a humble craftsman.

Today’s barber is a technician, an artist, and often, a therapist.

From flywhisks to fragrance, the journey of the Kenyan barbershop mirrors the nation’s coming of age from utility to experience, from necessity to ritual, and from haircuts to holistic care.