Frank
My name is Madej and I grew up in Sri Lanka and I am proud to be a Tamil. In my country, life was unsafe in the 1990s because a brutal civil war between the large populations, Tamils and Sinhalese, was still in full swing. I was 18 years old and it was obvious that the rebellious Tamils would very soon force me to join them as a soldier.
So I decided to emigrate, look for work and support my family. I heard from friends that it was easy to emigrate to Europe. I saved diligently and borrowed enough money from friends to buy a cheap ticket to Europe. I said goodbye to my family and flew to Frankfurt in Germany.
At passport control, I showed my passport and said the famous word “asylum”. The border guards immediately arrested me and put me in a cell. This was followed by countless interviews with various authorities. I always explained that I was to be forced to serve in the Tamil underground army and that my life was in danger. After a week in prison, they sent me to a refugee reception centre filled with people from all over the world. Everyone was waiting for a decision on whether they would have to stay or leave the country again. I got a small room with a bed and closet and a temporary residence permit for 6 months.
However, my chances of getting a permanent residence permit were low and so 5 months passed without a decision.
I hadn’t gotten a haircut since my departure from Sri Lanka and my fast-growing blue-black wavy hair hung down to my shoulders and my wavy bangs reached up to my chin and kept falling over my eyes. I wasn’t used to such long hair. At home in tropical warm Sri Lanka, only women had such long hair and so I went to the hairdresser once a month as soon as my quiff became another wave longer and it hung in my eyes. My hair was shaved back and sides and stayed on my head no longer than 3 cm. I was therefore a little ashamed when I looked in the mirror, but I had no money for a professional hairdresser and did not want a free haircut from my fellow inmates.
It was summer and I met a German girl in a park near the camp. Her name was Heidi and she had thin, red-dyed short hair. She admired my long hair and invited me to dinner. After a few meetings, we fell in love with each other. I told her about my impending deportation and she said she would help me get a permanent residence permit. However, when I asked her to lend me some money for a haircut and go to the hairdresser with me, she strictly refused.
She had a hair fetish and loved men with very long hair. She found long hair in men particularly erotic and it couldn’t be long enough for her. Her own hair was so thin that it broke if it grew longer than 5 cm. She offered to marry her so that I could stay in Germany permanently.
In return, she had to promise to let my hair grow as long as possible. A month later we got married and I moved into her apartment. Within a year, I learned the language and found a job in a construction company. In my company, no one was interested in my hairstyle. So I was able to build a new life for myself and support my family in Sri Lanka. Everything was fine except for my hair, which grew faster than I would have liked.
After three years, they reached almost to my waist. I would have liked to have had it cut, but Heidi reacted hysterically every time and did not allow me to sacrifice even an inch. During the day at work, I wore my hair in a thick ponytail or braid. Heidi herself trimmed my tips once a year and I didn’t dare to ask her for a short haircut.
Finally, my family asked me to send them some pictures of me and Heidi. I didn’t want to show them my long hair because no normal man in Sri Lanka wore such long hair. Heidi found a solution and combed my hair back strictly, tucked it into the back of my shirt and smoothed it out with hair gel.
After two more years, my mane was so long that I could almost sit on it! My wavy quiff hung up to my belt and with my hair down it happened that my curls fell into my soup while eating. I felt like Simpson in the Bible. Heidi was happy and loved my long wavy healthy hair and devoted to caring for it. She combed it out for me every morning and made me a braid or ponytail.
12 months later I got a message from my parents that they wanted to visit me and Heidi. I was ashamed to face my family with such hair. They were as long as the women of my homeland wore it. There was no chance to convince Heidi to have my hair cut short. I begged her, but she reminded me of my promise and thought that I was much better looking than any other Tamil. Something had to happen.
A week before my family arrived, Heidi had to go on a business trip. In the morning, Heidi combed my hair out in front of our man-sized mirror and not on one of our kitchen chairs as usual. I saw myself in the mirror again for a long time and was shocked by my appearance. The mane had already grown again within the last year! Big blue black waves now covered my butt and the parting hairs touched my hips. (I am only 1.65 m tall and my hair was a good 1.20 m at the back) She complimented me, braided me a ponytail and fastened it to my neck with a clamp to form a bun. (I haven’t been able to wear my hair open for a long time)
I waited until she left the apartment, took a deep breath and came to a decision. The opportunity was favorable, without Heidi being able to interfere. I called in sick at my company and an hour later went outside to the nearest hair salon. It was cold and I pulled over my hood. Two streets away from our apartment I found a hair salon, called “Sonja’s Hair Paradise”. I looked carefully through the shop window and saw only a female customer sitting in one of three barber chairs and entered the shop after a deep breath and a heavy heart. Two hairdressers gossiped with each other while the customer sat under a hair dryer. Apparently they had a lot of time and nothing to do. One of the hairdressers, with blonde rasp-short hair and a tight, black leather costume, immediately came to me and introduced herself as Barbara. I asked her if she could cut my hair now, and she said yes after looking at her diary. Today there is just not much going on, so shortly after Christmas, no problem! She asked me to take a seat in the waiting area for a moment. I took off the hood and took off my coat. The hairdresser noticed my thick bun and asked me to open my hair. She was shocked when I undid the clamps, shook myself and my flowing blue-black hair cascaded over my butt and my side parting rolled out in waves to my hips and blocked my vision. When I put it behind my ears, her eyes widened, she just said “oh my God, what a mat…! When was the last time you went to the hairdresser?” – “When I left Sri Lanka 6 years ago, I had it cut for the last time.” I took a seat in the waiting area and she began to clear one of the hairdressing chairs. Meanwhile, I combed out my hair and sat on it for the last time. My side parting fell on a magazine I was leafing through. The other two women in the salon stared around me, started laughing, and waited for the massacre.
Barbara asked me to go to the middle hairdresser’s chair. I stood up and turned my back to her at her request and she made jokes about my “breeding”. “You look like a young woman with hair that is much too long. Why did they let it grow for so long?” – “My wife wanted it that way, because I hate long hair myself. If it had been up to me, I would go to the hairdresser once a month! Today my wife is away and my family is coming next week. I didn’t want to face you like that.” Then I took a seat and she pumped up the chair while her colleague helped her hold up my mane to put on a paper ruff and a white nylon cape with ribbons. She pulled my hair out of the cloak and dropped it. In the mirror, I saw that the tips ended well below the seat and completely covered the back of the chair. She began to comb out my hair thoroughly and said to me:
“I’ve never had a male client with such an overdue haircut. They are over 1 m long! What hairstyle do you want to have – hopefully more than just a trim. I said “everything has to go down – I want a facon cut… … and could you braid me a braid first?” She nodded in relief, brushed all the hair back and tied it into a huge ponytail, fixed it in my neck with an elastic band and braided a thick blue-black braid. She took her scissors, asked me to take a deep breath and began step by step to saber off the braid above the rubber. It was a special moment for me, I was so happy to finally get rid of this ridiculous hair. It took a few minutes before she was able to put it in my arms in a braid more than 1 m long, a good 5 cm thick. My throat felt a little cold now that it was finally over. The other two women applauded and Barbara presented them with the blue and black braid like a trophy.
Now the fine-tuning began. My hair was now at chin length. Barbara sprayed it and cut it piece by piece to 3 centimeters. The cloak filled all over with blue-black strands that slowly slid to the ground. Then she began to shave the sides and the back of her head with the clippers. She fixed the upper hair with hair gel and took away the cloak. There was ankle-high hair on the floor and Barbara said that I looked like a man again and not like a hair monster.” I looked in the mirror and smiled. It was a good feeling to see me in short hair after such a long time. Barbara handed me my braid, I paid and she helped me in my coat. In the meantime, her colleague stuffed mountains of blue-black curls into a trash can.
In the evening, Heidi came home and was shocked and cried when she saw me. She screamed “Madej, you look like any Tamil now!” A week later we picked up my parents at the airport. They accepted Heidi as a full member of our family from the very beginning. She was very happy about it, because she was an orphan and had never had a family. My parents were very pleased to see me with a nice haircut and had no idea that it had looked a bit different two days ago. My family wondered about the long braid in our bedroom, but didn’t ask any further questions. They complained about the constant bombing and murders in our village and we decided to bring the whole family to Europe.
I didn’t let my hair grow anymore, Heidi forgave me and loved me with short hair. We hung my braid in an exposed place in our bedroom where Heidi could touch and stroke it whenever she wanted. My family emigrated a year later and Heidi and I had three children, two daughters and a son. Until my son was 6 years old, we let his blue-black hair grow for the sake of him and Heidi. When they hung up to their hips, I wanted to take him to Barbara to give him his first real haircut. But he cried and stubbornly refused to have his hair cut. He wanted to let his hair grow even longer and we allowed him. They proliferated until his first girlfriend, a short-haired fetishist, sent him to the hairdresser.
