I have decided to start a new life in Kafanchan. I will not be taking questions. What happened last Saturday must never repeat itself and will forever be between me, the salon, some friends and the reader of this post.

There comes a point in life when you need to come to the hard, cold realization of knowing when you have messed up. But when does acceptance come in and when does the smarting disgrace of messing up go away? Nobody knows and that is why I will be relocating to Kafanchan.

I will be packing a few clothes and maybe enough scarves to cover my face until I get to the park, lest the people I embarrassed myself in front of see me. I can already feel the sense of peace that anonymity in Kafanchan will bring me as I mentally take note not to make the same mistake again.

I had gone to make my hair at the salon. On getting home, I noticed my leave-in was missing and called to ask for it to be kept for me until my next appointment. I was told it was not there.

ME: Exsqueeze me? Do you know how many Tinubu nairas that leave-in is worth? It is barely used and now you are telling me it cannot be found.

STYLIST: Ma, we packed everything for you before you left, it is not here.

ME: You people should check first! How is it possible for it to be missing? What are you people saying?

My newly braided scalp began to sweat. I cannot fake the usual Nigerian reaction of “oh it is not about the money, it is about the leave-in brand,” because it was absolutely about the money! I called the salon back expecting them to say they found it mistakenly placed on the shelves among the salon’s conditioners and shampoos. What I got instead was the nervous voice of my stylist still maintaining they could not find it.

I lost it. “Are you guys calling me mad? How is it possible for us both to be arguing about something I clearly remember using?” The stylist clarified they had used the salon’s own for me because they figured I forgot mine. “So you guys are gaslighting me now? Because first you said it was never there and now it is the salon’s own. Did you ask me for mine so I would know?”

STYLIST: No, but you know we used to use our…

ME: You guys don’t worry, I am coming back.

I drove back almost at boiling point while going over it with my friend on the phone. My friend, not fully getting the picture, said I should try to speak with the owner and explain. I said I wouldn’t want the stylist to get into trouble. When I got back, the stylist was going through cabinets searching for my leave-in. Apparently the owner had been notified too, because she told me as I walked through the door that they could not find it but she promised to ensure I get a new one at my next appointment. I swallowed my pent up anger, mildly irritated that I could not express my annoyance in perfect, impeccable English. Because you see, on a normal day I may slip up on my words or make one or two grammatical blunders, but when I am angry? The kind of English I speak, ehn. Oh my lord. Even Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie would be astounded at my mastery of the poetic usage of the English language. So imagine me not getting the chance to show off, but at least I was placated with the promise of a whole new leave-in.

Who wouldn’t be thrilled at the news of getting a whole new jar of leave-in, considering how expensive it has gotten. Unfortunately, the joy was short lived. On Tuesday morning, as I rummaged through my wardrobe for a fitting skirt to match the brown top I had selected to wear to work, there it was. Sitting comfortably in what seemed like a mocking way, my leave-in nestled in between my folded tees and bunched up scarves. If I had received some visitors or someone from the salon had followed me home, I would have called it a setup. But guys, the leave-in was staring me down on Tuesday morning. The leave-in I had been fighting over. The one that almost made me quote Shakespeare and shake my fist like a disgruntled customer being gaslighted by the manager.

Of course I was overwhelmed with shame. What face would I use to call or go back to the salon and tell them I was after all mistaken, and that yes, my stylist was right? How would I explain that it was the anguish of knowing I might have to fork out thousands of Tinubu nairas to replace it that made me react like a melanated Karen?

So, I will be there first thing in the morning on the 1st of May to apologize sincerely and shamelessly tell them I found the leave-in conditioner. Perhaps I can embellish and tell them I do usually crashout from time to time, and even though that is not enough excuse for the display, they should find it in their hearts to forgive me. Thereafter, I shall take my leave and head over to Ojota park to ask where I can board the night bus to Kafanchan.

Wish me luck guys.