Barberic Times

by Abhijeet Deogirikar

The dentist’s chair has been famed to be the scariest of all chairs. Ogden Nash has even written an eloquent poem about its horrors.
I’m pretty sure Ogden Nash never went for a haircut. For me, the barber’s chair is right up there with the worst of them. If you want a haircut in a foreign land, that is.

Barbers in my hometown are pretty good at their trade. You tell them how you want your hair cut, and they do the needful. They generally do not try to be consultants (one did venture to ask me if I wanted to do away with my moustache. But he quickly realized his mistake). All in all, they generally do not step out of line.

In contrast, the barbers I came across abroad were a different species altogether. They see art in their work, which is a good thing. They see modelling clay in their customers, which is the bad part.

The first time I faced this predicament was in the good city of New York, my first visit abroad.

Part I: Case of the Spanish barber(ess), New York
A haircut is something I must get every month. Call it good or bad, it has become my habit. To me, a haircut is like mowing the lawn so short that you don’t have to do it for another month.

Not so with the Yankee barbers. They probably view it as a hibiscus hedge that needs to be trimmed and shaped, so that people can applaud when you win the ‘best kept garden’ trophy.

I had seen the general representation of punk-haired individuals in Hollywood movies. And I knew about the zeal of the hair-stylists of New York. As such, I had reasons to be concerned. I might walk in as myself, and walk out as somebody who I wouldn’t care to meet in the street.

The other thing that bothered me was the concept of ‘unisex’ parlors. I won’t mince words. I am NOT comfortable with a lady cutting my hair. Don’t get me wrong; it’s just that women have far too much on their minds already. Due to which the results for my hair could be potentially unspeakable, albeit spectacular. The visionaries who came up with the idea of unisex salons must have been true die-hard adventurers. Or bald. Both kinds would fail to see my point of view.

To return to my tale, I entered the only salon which seemed to employ a gentleman. It also employed two ladies. It was a gamble, positioning yourself to be the nth customer, so that the guy could attend to your haircut.

I gambled. And I lost. Just my usual run of luck.

I told the Spanish lady : ‘Please make it short.’

This galvanized the good lady into zealous animation. What followed were the words that I still have nightmares about: ‘You want SPIKES, right?’

I was told that in the US, if you wanted vegetarian food, don’t ask for just ‘veg’. Ask for ‘Asian veg’. Nobody told me what to say if you wanted a short haircut. The words ‘short haircut’, apparently, were insufficient. This was the U.S. of A.

In adversity, they say, a man rises to his true potential. I dutifully rose to my true diplomatic potential. Slowly but surely, I explained to the lady what I wanted. She seemed to understand (I doubted that she fully understood English. And I knew more about the tribes of the Kalahari than I knew about Spanish. So it was no mean feat).

I got the haircut I wanted, and she got a big tip. Big by my standards, anyway.

I was in New York for several months. By and by, I learnt the trick of getting what I wanted, while still respecting the craftsman’s art. I found a desi barber.

Part II: Case of the Portugese barber, Vancouver

Lightening never strikes the same place twice; it’s an age-old adage. I have stopped believing age-old adages.

The second time lightening struck me in Vancouver, in a small salon. The fact that it was small was why I had decided to walk in. Small, hence utilitarian, my intelligence told me. I should have left my intelligence at home.

The elderly owner (he was evidently an immigrant) pointed to the legendary chair.

In a fight, it’s best to land the first punch. But hindsight is a wonderful thing - it never fails to tell you what you did wrong. The attack came without any warning: ‘I’m going to give you a new hair-style. Your’s is totally outdated.’

In the brief span of a few seconds, three important facts were thrown my way:

a. This grand-fatherly character didn’t like my ‘hairstyle’. Now, as far as I was concerned, ‘hairstyle’ is a word reserved for the fairer gender. Gentlemen always had a ‘haircut’. Simple. But this guy thought differently. Or I was way behind the times.

b. He intended to do something about my haircut.

c. He wasn’t asking my permission to do it. He hadn’t articulated a question. Or even a suggestion. It was a statement of fact. ‘I’m going to give you a new hair-style’. Just like that.

At times like these, one wonders if Monalisa really wanted to be painted that way. If Michelangelo’s David was happy to be sculpted in that form. Or was it just the ‘I’m going to, and there is damn all you can do about it’ attitude of their creators (God rest their souls)? Admittedly, both turned out to be amongst the greatest masterpieces in the history. But then, some people are luckier than the others.

For the next hundred and eighty seconds, I patiently listened to the salon owner’s flattering monologue about how my haircut was grossly outdated by at least ten years. How no one parted their hair on the left side any more. Or any side, for that matter. How he could make it better.

In the midst of this hair-splitting, I cast one vile glance at the older man’s crown, in hopes of extracting a modicum of revenge. Eye-for-an-eye stuff. A bald pate glimmered back at me. Not my lucky day, this one.

At last he paused, expecting to find total agreement with his expert opinion.

‘I’m not really looking for a change of style. Just make it short’.

‘You sure? I am thinking of giving you a cool style. Like George Clooney’s.’

He was persistent, I grant him that. I was terrified. He might not achieve his lofty goal, but he would die trying, leaving me halfway there! I tried to put the disturbing thought out of my mind. It was impossible, even with the large mirror in front mocking me with the nasty possibilities that lay ahead. I was ready to bolt out of there, and the hell with the eighteen dollars.

Then the truth sunk in: eighteen dollars! No way! Maybe he’s right. Maybe he could make me look a bit like Clooney. But then again, maybe Santa did exist, after all. Anyway, it was my hair we were talking about, and the question wasn’t up for a vote. It would be cut just the way I wanted it.

‘Thanks. But I just want it cut short’, I asserted. Grudgingly, he gave in.

Hair stylists chat a lot while plying their trade. They have to. Imagine someone snipping away at the back of your neck in utter silence. Unsettling, isn’t it? So they keep up a steady ramble about one thing or another.

‘Where are you from, my friend ?’

‘India. A place called Pune.’

‘Have you been to other places, apart from Vancouver?’

I could honestly muster the names of a few places around the world that I had been to. And a few that I hadn’t been to.

I got in a quick question of my own: ‘Where do you come from?’

‘From the land of Vasco da Gama’, he answered. So he was from Portugal. ‘Da Gama discovered India’, came next.

The first bristles of hair rose on my wrists. I’m particularly sensitive to any affront, real or imagined, to my country’s glory, and would have liked to point out to him in great detail how, unlike Greenland, India didn’t have to be ‘discovered’ by anybody. And that great civilizations had thrived in my land when the early Europeans were just graduating past cave paintings.

But it seemed a rather harsh reaction to a relatively harmless, though erroneous, line picked up from history books. Besides, he was the one with the scissors. I’m tactful around people with snipping blades in the vicinity of my ears. I have rather large ears, and would like to keep them that way. I decided on strategic retreat.

He went on for a while about the beauty of Vancouver. It’s neatness. Serenity. Stuff like that. Then onto Portugal, and its countless virtues.

‘So which city did you like the best, huh ?’ I knew the question was coming. He expected me to declare, ‘ Vancouver !’, or maybe even some praise for Portugal. (I didn’t recall if my recently published list of ‘places visited’ included any in that country).

‘My hometown, Pune, is the best of all.’ Take that, Vasco ! I had got my pound of flesh. The score was even again. (I would have loved to say ‘bestest’, but he still had the scissors).

‘Yeah, home is where the heart is’, he conceded. And where stylists do what they are asked, I could have added.

Not much banter ensued after this. Once he felt he had done his best, he stood back to review - nay, admire - his handiwork. I let him. He put away the towel from my shoulders, and put down his assortment of artists’ tools. I let him.

‘Howz that, huh?’ You could have heard ‘Voila’ in his voice. It was time to deliver the blow.

‘Make it shorter’, I said curtly.

It was heartless, I know. Even Wicked. I enjoyed it immensely! I was going to make him earn every one of those eighteen damned dollars.

He was finished. For another ten minutes, he snipped away dutifully. I got my hair cut exactly as I wanted it. He got his lesson. Fair deal.

‘Thanks, Mister Bruno.’ I said on my way out. I had read the name off the license hanging over the mirror, but he didn’t know that. The old man was somewhat impressed. He wished me a happy new year. I wished him the same.

Perfect gentlemen.

Author can be contacted at abhijeetdeogirikar@gmail.com

Image Attribution: http://www.flickr.com/photos/invisiblehour/3095269052/