Egghead, Egghead Anonymous

On September 25, 2010, my parents agreed that shaving my head would be an effective disciplinary measure against my growing indifference towards my studies. It was a scaldingly hot day in Lagos. My mother drove down the old Ikoyi bridge that would have formerly taken us to our home. I closed my eyes and imagined our car coming to rest at the rusty gates flanked by hedges of purple hibiscus flowers which had captivated my attention as an infant. When I opened my eyes, I saw, instead, the faded sign for a local barber’s shop.

I died within the four walls of the shop on that day. Death was the only description I could give to the langour I felt when I returned to school the following day. My hair had been shaved so close to my scalp that the exposed skin tingled. When I stepped into my classroom, everyone fell quiet. I flinched as a peal of laughter exploded in the back row. My friends could not bear to meet my eye: in our culture, a shorn female was a bearer of great shame.

After surviving the humiliation of that first day, I could not help but contemplate long term strategies for coping with the negative attention earned by my startling appearance. I realised that I was more resilient than I thought and, rather than drown in...