On Getting a Haircut



One thing that I avoid the most is a haircut because every time I get it done no one at my home recognises me. In fact, on many previous occasions, even I have failed to recognise my own self. I am at a loss to understand what the barber does with my hair. How come in such a short while - well, not exactly a short while, it’s between 30 to 60 minutes – the barber transforms my entire personality in such a way that my own family refuses to accept me as their own?



Last weekend, I went to the barber for that dreaded haircut. The problem is that when I don’t take a haircut and allow my hair to grow long then also my family doesn’t recognise me.



‘Cut your hair,’ my wife reminded me. ‘You are looking like a wild man.’ So, at 9 in the morning, I was at the salon. It was empty, so I breathed a sigh of relief – waiting to get a haircut with at least a dozen men ahead of you is another torture associated with hair-cutting. The salon had no customers, that was ok, but where was the barber? I called out ‘Is anyone there?’



From inside, a disheveled man rubbing sleep off his eyes, appeared. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’



‘What can you do apart from cutting my hair?’ I asked surprised.



‘Massage, sir,’ he said, his eyes shining.



I was surprised with this response so I went out of the salon to check if I was really in a salon or by mistake entered one of those shady massage parlours. In bold letters, on a board was written, ‘Stylo Salon.’ I stepped in again and said, ‘I want a nice decent haircut.’



The barber made me sit on a chair. He then turned the handle protruding out of the chair clock-wise (or was it anti-clockwise) elevating me to a height where the mirror and I were at exact level. He took out a cloth, rather apron-like cloth, waved it in the air a few times and putting over me, tied the strings around my neck.



He just about stopped tightening the string at precisely the point where if he had tightened a wee bit further, I would have died of strangulation.  I thanked the merciful lord from saving me from such a grotesque death. He went inside from where he had popped out and came back wearing a white shirt, which was his uniform. He picked up a comb and I thought, ‘There begins my torment.’



But no, it didn’t. There was still time for it. He had to first set his own hair. He passed the comb through his thin locks and then with both the hands he patted his head. Now set, he focused his attention on me.



First, he sprayed water on my hair. He was so generous with the spraying that I had a feeling of standing underneath a shower. Water dripped from my hair onto my face, shoulders and back. After having finished drenching my hair, he pulled out a couple of tissues from the tissue-box and patted my hair. Then he picked up a scissor and a comb.



‘I want a simple hair-cut,’ I reminded him.

‘Parwa nahi Sir,’ he said.

He adjusted my head in such a position that even a slave would have looked like my master. The scissor and comb began to work feverishly. I wanted to lift my head and look in the mirror to see how my haircut was progressing but he bent my neck further to indicate to me that he was the boss and without his permission I dare not lift my head. After a few more snips, he told me to see the mirror.



For some moments, I was confused with the image I was seeing. The man in the mirror was not me. But then, who else it could be?



‘I told you I wanted a simple hair-cut,’ I said.

‘Ye simple hi hai,’ he said.

‘But I look so different; this style doesn’t suit my face.’  

‘You look like hero now,’ he said.

‘I want to look my own self,’ I said irritated.

‘No problem sir I will make some adjustment,’ he said.



Before I could react to his statement, he had adjusted my head against the head support and had begun to clip, snip, trim and shear my hair again. No amount of protests from my side had any kind of effect on him. When he was through, he wetted my hair, combed it, and then patting my head said, ‘Now take a look, sir.’



I almost fell off the chair. If earlier I looked like a stranger; now I was looking like an alien. I felt helpless and hopeless. Why does a haircut experience have to be so harrowing, so hair-raising? - I thought on my way home.



With nervous fingers I rang the doorbell of my house. My wife opened the door and closed it immediately saying, ‘My husband is not in. He has gone for a hair-cut.’



‘Darling, it’s me,’ I said, ringing the doorbell again.



-          NZ

16.9.2019

BN: 129










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