a little off the back and sides

You’d think moving to Africa would involve all sorts of exotic deprivations, which would inspire self-congratulatory anecdotes about one’s toughness and grant one license to moralize on the corrupting power of industrial comforts. But I’ve neither ridden a donkey to the well, nor gathered wood for the cook fire, nor chased vipers from my hut. My clean, well-lit apartment delivers water from its taps that turns out to be as drinkable as New York’s. My deprivations at the moment are of the same lame sort I’ve faced whenever I’ve moved to a new town. Such as: How do I find a place to do the laundry? Or: where can I get a haircut that doesn’t suck? Until answers come, I’m going to continue sporting the same coif I did in the third grade while doing our wash in the bathtub.