Tryst With The Barbershop

Many years ago, when I was a little girl, my tresses used to be longer than my dresses. In fact, they were (and still are) my crowning glory. I would have people staring enviously at my long, wavy, jet-black hair all the time. But my pride also was my mother’s nemesis. Every time Mom tried to remove the knots, loud screams from my lungs would bring the roof down and also land our well-meaning neighbours at our doorstep. They would look pitifully at me and preach my mother on the virtues of a boy-cut. After many more sessions of broken roofs and curious neighbours, Mom finally gave in. I was served marching orders to have my hair cut.

Those days, beauty parlours were unheard of in our middle class locality and existed only for the rich and the famous. Poor me had to settle for the local barbershop. Mom’s middle class moorings wouldn’t permit her to accompany me. How could she, a decent married woman, go to the barbershop? So it became Dad's bounden duty to take me to his barber. Not having much of a say regarding this matter though it was of my head, I accompanied Dad to his barber one sunny Sunday. Thus began my tryst with the barbershop.

The barbershop itself was a very tiny space - a one-room salon with a small passage in the front. The doors were wooden shutters painted in blue. The passage leading to the inside had a long cushioned bench to seat waiting customers. The bench was colourful and cheery, with a bright green frame and red cushions. The barbershop was situated adjacent to a Panduranga Temple and the barber, being an ardent devotee of the Lord, had simply named his service "Panduranga Hair Saloon".

The barber turned out to be a veteran in his trade. He expertly untangled the elusive curls and snipped them to make a boy-cut. I had expected the haircut to be a horrid experience but it turned out to be a jolly good one. At the end of the fifteen-minute ritual, he casually remarked that I looked very modern. That compliment was enough to make me an instant convert, and the barber became my very own Barber Uncle. As was Dad's wont, he had to have his hair cut every fortnight. I was so enamored of the barbershop that I would pester him to take me along with him for his haircuts too. Soon I came to enjoy my fortnightly jaunts. I would watch the proceedings from the passage while Dad had his haircut.

The passage room had assorted stuff. At one end was a tea-poy that served more as a magazine rack. There were old magazines and very old yellowed and browned newspapers. If one ever needed archived stuff, one had to only visit Panduranga Hair Saloon. The shop was fit to give the British Council Library a run for its money. Barber Uncle must have given some thought about his young clientele for he had stocked Chandamama too. Some of the magazines were in languages I couldn't read; serving as proof to the diverse clientele he catered to. In the other corner was a radio blaring away constantly.

It was a treat to watch Barber Uncle in action. An expert snip here, a deft cut there, always synchronized, never missing a step. Even the motion of wrapping the white sheet of cloth had a certain rhythm about it, his hands swaying to a silent music. He intuitively knew Dad's preferences and repeated them effortlessly time after time. Next to himself, Dad trusted only Barber Uncle with his prized moustache. Barber Uncle was the de-facto custodian of Dad’s imperial glory reflected in his military crop and Veerappan moustache. The tools of his trade were nothing fancy: a spray bottle, combs in assorted sizes and colours, trimmers, scissors and some other gadgets. He would chat animatedly with Dad on the happenings around the world. He would talk about politics in the same breath as movies. I used to marvel at the depth of his knowledge - he was a veritable walking encylopaedia. He knew of all the latest happenings even before Akashvani announced them. I found the visits immensely entertaining and easy on Dad's wallet too.

My visits continued for a few years. When the Asiad of 1982 came to India, Barber Uncle replaced the radio with a small black and white TV. But my visits to his place stopped. For, I was now a demure lass and the boy-cut no longer suited me. Moreover, we moved to a different part of the city.

Life has come a full circle. It was about time for my daughter’s trip to the salon. She being mother’s daughter is also endowed with long, wavy, jet-black hair in perpetual knots. Come grooming time, along with the full-throated screams and broken roofs, I also had to endure the newfound fear of the cops. Living in the USA, it wouldn’t take much for an irate neighbour to call the 911 emergency services to have us evicted. So after many agonizing days of verbal and physical duels, dotty reluctantly agreed to a visit to the salon. I flipped through the yellow pages and found an easy sounding one amidst all the glitzy and pricey salons that lined the strip malls. Elated, I gently broached the topic at dinnertime and suggested that hubby take her there, just as dad had done in yesteryears. Hubby was very amused and let me know equally gently but firmly that dotty’s salon visit was my business. So here I was, all set to do the rounds that my father used to do for me.

“Great Clips” the neon lights smiled. The gleaming glass doors beckoning me, I gingerly stepped in to the hair-cuttery and was greeted by an array of Barbies (Pray, how else would you address a female barber?) Nonplussed at the novel sight, I composed myself quickly and announced that dotty needed a haircut. One of the hairstylists thrust a catalogue into dotty’s hands for her to pick her choice. I wished I could simply order a boy-cut. But no! It was her hair and she had to have a say. Needless to say, I spotted a devilish glee on dotty’s face when she picked the one that needed the least cuts and flicks.

I looked around at the wall of mirrors. The salon was massive and could seat upto ten customers at a time. The humble barbershop of yore was a pale comparison. The chairs were state of the art and put even a dentist’s clinic to shame. I was asked to seat myself in the plush lounge while the hairstyling progressed inside. I couldn’t bring myself to sit on the leather and steel that felt cold to the touch. I stood there, watching anxiously as the hairstylist brandished a pair of clippers that looked more like a garden tool. My mind tried to focus on the CNN news that beamed from the big screen TV but to no avail. My thoughts kept going back to the happenings inside. Somehow the salon reminded me of a sanitized operation theatre. There was very little animation in the proceedings. The hairstylist was strictly a professional at work, very methodical and precise…

The Barbie’s call interrupted my train of thoughts. The haircut had been finished in the most efficient manner in the shortest possible time. I paid her the fee plus a fat tip, all the while trying to assess the before and after. I couldn’t perceive any difference in the length of dotty’s hair; it still stood at waist length. Disillusioned, I made a mental math of dollars ‘n’ rupees. What I had just paid came out to be a whopping hundred times more than what Barber Uncle used to charge back then. I touched my purse and thought it felt disproportionately lighter. I realized that the ‘great clip’ was intended more for my purse than for dotty’s hair. I came away; knowing my tryst with the barbershop would never be the same again.

Copyright © melodyqueen @ sulekha.com, 2007