A small girl surrounded by a sea of hairpieces sucks a lollipop, and sways to loud music and adult conversation. Patrons on plastic chairs submit to the practiced fingers of hairstylists from Lagos, Kinshasa, Nairobi, Maputo, Lilongwe, Harare, Accra, and Luanda. Coils, knots, braids and beads, sewn, woven, crocheted in pyramids, sausages, swirl and curl, for beauty’s sake. Soft and lovely, light and free, beautiful black mane tumbles onto blue, red and gold fabric in the fading light of a Saturday afternoon in Jo’burg City. 
Hairdressing is big in Jo’burg. And it’s everywhere. On pavements and street corners, in shopping malls, main streets and side streets, in converted garages, on verandahs and in backrooms. There are hairstylists in Chinatown, Bruma, Eastgate, Park Meadows, and on every block from Bez Valley to Judith’s Paarl, to Lorenzville, to Bertrams, to Troyeville. From morning until late, seven days a week, hairstylists ply their trade along Commissioner Street, Bree Street, Jeppe Street; in Newtown and onwards to Fordsburg. Hairdressing has become integral to the social and economic life of Jo’burg City. 
The how and where of hairdressing have changed radically over the past twenty years. The greatest changes have been in the last decade with the dissolution of apartheid structures. The influx of huge numbers of Chinese traders, products and accessories and the influence of fashions and trends from other African countries has given new vibrancy to hairdressing and related trades. But whilst the stimulus of influences from a multiplicity of traditions is evident in the proliferation of new hair creations, special skills are required for different kinds of hair so white hairdressers will stick to white clients, black hairdressers to black clients and Chinese hairdressers to Chinese clients. 
However, hairdressing salons (as opposed to pavement hairstylists) increasingly offer a variety of additional beauty treatments (massages, manicures, pedicures, waxes, etc.) and here you will find black clients going to white beauticians and white clients going to black or Chinese beauticians for a vast array of services. I have had the privilege - and the stress - of observing the vitality of inner city hairdressing at close quarters since my Nigerian neighbour two houses down set up first a hairdressing and then a barber shop in his carport. The underbelly of the development is the relentless buzz of clientele hanging out on the pavement, and the fact that my neighbour (who has permission to build a carport, not a hairdressing site) has threatened to “deal with” me if I come too close or take a photograph.
A block away from the carport salon, on Broadway, between 8th and 7th Streets, Louise Andrade is blow-drying the hair of an 86-year old client who has been coming to her once a week for 40 years. The two women chat away in Portuguese. Every now and then Louise translates in broken English. I am aware that I am missing out on chunks of the conversation. Louise’s client, Henrietta Monteiro, originally from Portugal, immigrated to South Africa from Mozambique more than 40 years ago. Like many of Louise’s clients, she lives entirely in Johannesburg’s Portuguese community and barely speaks or understands a word of English. 
Louise is also from Mozambique. She came to Johannesburg in the early 1970s with her husband and son (two more sons were born in South Africa). Thirty-seven years ago she bought the shop, "Maison Sharon", where she had been employed as a hairdresser. She paid R 4,000 for it. Things have changed a lot since those days: “The shops were nice, the houses, were nice, everything was nice. Now everything is dirty and most of the nice shops have closed.” With obvious nostalgia she reminisces about the chemist, the drycleaner, the butcher and the Greek café owner, Spiro, who sold wonderful bread and cakes and imported cheeses.
Louisa’s husband’s death seven years ago has made her especially conscious of death and dying and its impact on her business: “Every year three or four or five of my clients pass away,” she says with a sad voice.
Louise’s life has been challenging in many ways: She was always the main breadwinner since her husband’s employment was irregular and unreliable, and she has suffered from a series of stress-related illnesses and degenerative conditions related to her trade, which have necessitated several painful back operations. Her clients have saved her time and time again, she says, by listening to her, allowing her to talk about her struggles, and supporting her various money-generating enterprises (she sells jewelry and a range of fashion accessories that she has created). Louise feels a connection to shops and shop owners who have remained in the area: Settlers Stores, Bez Valley Tailors and “the lady who makes the hats”, Dolly the milliner. Dolly was very famous, Louise says. “Everybody asked for her…”
Many of Louise’s clients (men and women) have been coming to her since she began her business in Bez Valley. Their children and grandchildren have become her clients too. But business has deteriorated in recent years. She says this is because people are scared to come to Bez Valley and because of the proliferation of hairdressing salons in the city and surroundings: “There is a lot of competition.”
In the old days the shop was open from seven in the morning to five or six at night. These days, Louise opens the shop after eight and closes at three in the afternoon. “It is too dangerous to stay open late,” she says. Her prices remain very reasonable. “I don’t put up the prices to much because people can’t afford more…”
Local customers include the owner of ‘Love Craft”, the sex shop two shops down, and “Indian and coloured” clients for manicures, pedicures and eyebrow tinting and shaping.
