Comb & Scissors (BH : D288)

May 20, 2012

Since whatever is left of my hair had started making spiraling escape attempts to outer space, I went to the nearest barbershop first thing in the morning yesterday. By first thing, I mean after breakfast. And I am not sure of the mathematical precision of the "nearest" claim. But the shop is less that half a kilometer from home.

Despite the proximity I had never been there before. Mostly because the owner and chief head operator, who usually stands outside chatting with the taxi drivers and loading/unloading laborers of the area, looks like a popular bug eyed Telugu movie villain. As a teenager, I wasn't comfortable about spending time near such a man armed with blades and scissors.

But enough Dutch, American and other forms of courage have coursed through these veins in the past decades. Still, I wasn't ready for the sight that greeted me as I pushed open the dark film covered glass door. Achan had told me that barbershops open for business by 7am. Evidently, not! I entered the shop to stare at the man standing shirtless with his enormous rice belly resisting a belt arrest at the waist.

He nodded towards one of the waiting chairs. So did the belly. I couldn't but follow such a weighty suggestion. He went the 'opening' rituals slowly. The shop opening, just to clarify, in case you were struck by other vivid images. Bare chested he approached the faded array of gods stuck in a dusty glass frame near the ceiling. I wondered if the shirtless approach to gods is a Brahmanical principle. The man didn't have the usual girth-measuring thread the high castes sport. Perhaps his belly didn't quite measure up. 

He squeezed yesterday's oil out of a dirty yellow wick before reuse. Vivid image, I know! With the gods given light to view the proceedings from the vantage point, the man turned on the radio: an old 'Toshiba' tape recorder that was for some reason stuck inside two decrepit pieces of Thermocol.

As a government sponsored, cringe-worthy jingle about consumer rights rose from the radio, he went behind a gradually accumulated curtain of old clothes that separated a small wedge of the 12 ft by 8 ft shop, emerging fully clothed in half a minute. 

A nod summoned me to the execution chair. White shroud over me. I take note of the dog brushes and talcum powder tins on the shelf protruding from the wall to wall mirror base. And in the mirror I notice that the man is praying. Holding the comb and scissors in his right fist, he has both palms close to his chest and eyes closed. Nobody has prayer before my head before. Well, not the one on my neck anyway. 

I have been to many American homes where a prayer before the meal is a norm. God gets thanked for whatever is about to be eaten. I don't remember seeing the prayer before beginning of work ritual though. But that is an essential element of the Indian workplace and working day. I wonder if Indian prostitutes have a prayer too.

The hair cut was as lousy as Lehman Brothers'!