I vaguely remember being taken to the barber next to my house in Coimbatore when I was around five years old for my first haircut.
The details of the place have since been bolstered through repeated visits. The shop had two rusty high chairs that squeaked when you swiveled. The floor beneath would be a lush tapestry of discarded hair from many customers that would be swept off once every 30 minutes. A small TV, perched high on the wall, belted out songs from Tamil movies in high volume. You could smell the remnant fragrance of incense, wet hair, and talcum powder. It was an atmosphere.
Nestled on a small shelf in front of these chairs was an eclectic collection of sprays, lotions, dyes, colors, and other assorted haircare products whose brands were heard of only in Coimbatore and yet contained, quite paradoxically, glossy white men and women models with blonde hair on their packaging.
A haircut cost Rs. 30 in the early days.
I’d wait for adults in the queue to get their hair cut before being beckoned to the rusty iron throne. “Summer cut,” my father would say and we were off to the races. If you are imagining a sheep farmer shearing off his sheep you have captured the essence of the endeavor. I’d, however, emerge buoyant from getting rid of a significant weight from my head.
During my early school days, some friends (questionable title) in school bestowed the moniker of “coconut head” given the shape, color, and general scalp-heavy view of my ultra-sheared head. Less kind schoolmates asked questions like, “Which hole did you burrow your head into?” (carries more sting in Tamil).
Viewing this in hindsight, I had two revelations:
Until I was nearly twenty years old I had given my loyalty to one single barber whose grip on the craft was less-than-ideal, to say the least.
Even Coimbatore, it seems, harbored other barbers who were less susceptible to committing mishaps on young men’s heads.
And yet, this was the only barber I had known until I left the city after finishing my undergraduate degree.
Quarter after quarter, year after year, I’d go, request a “summer cut”, sit in the chair, and resign myself to his semi-dull scissors. My hair would snag on those reluctant scissors every once in a while and I’d wince until I learned to expect it and took the jolt of painful surprise like a….man. For his part, he’d douse me with bucketloads of water with his little spray gun until my hair was a soggy mess and rivulets flowed down my head.
I was convinced that my hair was a burden to this society and my barber was performing a noble service. To think this single individual has shaped my entire perception of my hair and its place in the world is at once amusing and mildly scary.
Nothing has Changed In 35 Years
My approach hasn’t changed much at all since.
I approach cutting my hair much the same way one might consider mowing their lawn - a practical necessity. I’d let it grow until it began to resemble a sort of hairy cordyceps taking root on my head. To be more scientific about it, I pretty much visit the barber when I am more annoyed with the hair on my head than annoyed at having to go to the barber.
I undertake this task begrudgingly as if sitting in a comfy chair and letting a benevolent man fuss over my head was the most arduous labor ever. The idea of going to a barber takes root in my head when the red curve begins to shift upwards but I procrastinate. In the meantime, my hair goes from being a “little too much” on the scale to “homeless Medusa” and the dichotomy between my civilized inner monologue and my external appearance becomes way too apparent. I go.
These days I do not ask for a summer cut but instead, go for an even simpler “make it short”. A sartorial stasis unlike any other.
Mr. AB
In the last few years, I’ve been going to a unisex hair salon in Bangkok. While its title suggests inclusivity for the male gender, I cannot be 100% sure. I have only ever seen women there during my visits. My captain in this ambiguous ship is the only male barber there, a benevolent Mr. AB.
I don’t quite mind the place. It’s near my home, the seat is comfortable and Mr. AB’s scissors aren’t rusty and he approaches my hair with a loving tentativeness that makes me feel unworthy. He does not speak English and I do not speak Thai and yet with nods, smiles, and broken half-words, we manage this relationship.
Whenever I visit (once every few months) the salon goes out of its way to accommodate me even though I walk in without an appointment. It’s conceivable that I am often the recipient of sympathy considering the lamentable status of my mane. I still pay the price, mind you - about 5x of what I have paid throughout my life.
As indifferent as I am, at the end of every session, he holds a mirror for me to review the work. I do the ritual of examining all the spiky remains on my head. I nod in approval as if I know what’s good and bad. It looks exactly like the same skull base shining through the sparse little carpet of hair nubs as it did two decades ago. Yet, I nod as if to say, “I like what you did with my head”
Then I pay the money and head out hoping to see him after another three months and another Medusal cycle.
The Window’s Closing
They say life flashes before your eyes when you die. I am having a similar revelation with my hair these days. At 40 years of age, with a hairline that’s retreating and the hair getting just that bit sparser every day, my head screams missed opportunity. I now have a whole new appreciation for men and women doing things with their hair, letting creative juices fly.
This has made me consider bold hair endeavors like dying my hair purple, sporting a mohawk, or going fully bald (which qualifies more like a hair end-ever). Whenever I’ve mentioned these to N, I’ve been met with a confident “sure” which immediately suggests to me heavy skepticism on her part, like when I suggest I would love to have a yacht in Monaco someday. She knows these are verbal mirages I say to keep myself happy.
But, I’ve begun to wonder.
Why have my salon visits been so monotonous? Maybe it is time to change things up. The barrier is simply a lack of imagination. Every visit, I am confounded on the question of what else does one ask the barber to do? I mentally vow to explore hairstyles before the next go around. Yet, as soon as my hair is cut, the idea of hair and styles evaporate from my mind until it’s too late and I need to head to the barber in a few months.
I have this desire to try something else before my head inevitably devolves into looking like a poor man’s Bezos.
Any ideas for the next visit?
Could be Worse,
Tyag
This was quite fun!
"To be more scientific about it, I pretty much visit the barber when I am more annoyed with the hair on my head than annoyed at having to go to the barber." This sums up the experience for me too.
However, off late, I have tried to add some charm to it. I get head massage done with my haircut. My barber will go do wrestle with my head & whatever hair is left after the 'short kar do' haircut and leave me totally tired & relaxed at the same time. I don't get that bliss any other moment. :)