It is Sunday which means that it is the day of rituals. Sundays are probably the only day which is bound by specific activities which are never done on any other day. I add “probably” for times they are changing.
Every month there is one Sunday which I look forward to with anticipation. On Saturday evening, father will announce in front of the family of tomorrow’s plan. Of course there is nothing new compared to other days, excepting a visit to the local barber. This meant that one had to get up earlier than usual. Father’s belief has always been that the earlier you get to the barber salon the better it is. The barber is fresh and being the first customer all his implements are of course properly washed and clean
I remember when I was a kid that we had homing barbers. These were like pigeons who would come visiting every month for a community haircut. Right from grandfather, his brothers, father his brothers, my cousins and me – the barber would get a bonus break. 20+ heads with 1 single visit. Which meant that as a barber he did not have to go and work elsewhere on that particular Sunday. All he needed to do was to bring in his blades, combs and scissors and a biryiani packet. It was his Field Day !!!
We never let barbers inside the house. There was a designated spot in the garden and the handyman would bring out a wooden chair. The honours would go to the granddad who will be up and about and get his thing done first. The sequence was purely based on descending age and that meant we kids ended up last sitting on the hairy chair with a carpet of black underneath. There was no water sprays or hair dryers. The barber would take some water in his hand, slap it on your head and off his scissors went snip snip. No questions were asked on the style. All of us had 1 single haircut. The elders had a medium haircut and the youngsters short (read Kutti Mottai). We had to run through the backyard after the haircut, enter the bathroom outside the main house, wash away our dirty sins before coming into the house. Granny would stand in the doorway and slap a bit of Rasayana Podi on our heads and rub it in – “will not get cold”!!!
Fast forward a little bit. We moved into an apartment complex in Madras. Yes it was called Madras at that time and to this day the name brings about a flutter in one’s heart. The barber salon was walking distance from the house and one needed to walk through the house to take a bath. Gone were the stringent norms of Shuddam. My father would take me and go to the salon on Sundays. It so happened that we were there on most of the visiting Sundays ushering the barber and helping him lift up the rolling shutters. He would be apologetic for his late coming at 6:30am but then father would dismiss it with a smiling nod completely comprehending the time difference between our ancestral home and Madras. Daylight savings was the in thing !!!. The usual routine changed into a little spray bottle, scissors offering a cropped cut and the blade giving a perfect “U” at the nape and your side burns perfectly chiselled away. I was offered a plank to sit up precariously perched on the chair arms and a dirty black cloth wrapped around to save me from the offending hair
As I grew up and started visiting the salon on my own in Bangalore, it became part of the same ritual reminding me of the memorable times with father and grandfather. The salon owner was Balu, a short stout person with large hands and nimble fingers. Having grown up on a regime of waking up early, I used to wait for Balu to open up the shutters. Strangely my affinity for salons with rolling shutters were persistent. Balu would open up the salon, pick up a couple of benches from inside and put it outside the salon and would start the cleaning. I would patiently sit on the bench and the paperboy would happily pass on the day’s fresh paper. “Enna Sir, Haircutta ? “ was his usual one-liner with a chuckle. The chaiwallah would pedal in and stop in front of the salon and Balu and I would share a cup of sweetened tea. I am a coffee aficionado and anything other than filter coffee was relegated to a term “Pathram kazhuvina thanni”. The radio would be switched on and MS in her lilting glory serenading the lord to get up, the incense sticks lit and a little prayer offered before Balu would welcome me to the chair. No questions asked and it was the usual cropped haircut. Of course a few years later, Balu would just take the shavette, lather my head and a complete tonsure was on. My visits stopped from being monthly affair to once a week. Soon a couple of regulars would come in for a shave and the four of us would have a go at the Indian and Karnataka politics. Balu would have given Arnab a run for his money with his sharp comments and witty retorts on the current situation. He would also share anecdotes of his family, the street dogs and the general happenings in the neighbourhood.
Today, I have moved on from the earlier house being a sort of a nomad searching for that elusive dreamhouse in this IT capital and have lost contact with Balu. I have a 7 year old son and thanks to the missus he has been to a plethora of luxury salons and beauty parlours for his haircut. And how does he get it cut, short on the sides and a touch on the top is what he says. The day is not consistent and neither is the barber – oops hair stylist. There is no conversation aplenty and the sounds are relegated to piped music of Kenny G. Maybe the saxophone does help the hair to stand a bit more straight and for the stylist to cut faster. There is no combs and the scissors are used to do last minute snips. A plethora of machines with No 2, No 3 and No 4 fittings and tissue rolls snapped around the neck so that you can choke to death welcomes you. Stylists walkaround with holsters full of equipment making you feel like you are in the Wild Wild West and they are going to cut your shoot you before the haircut. Hands now are swathed in rubber gloves and it makes you feel as if you are in an operating theatre. There is no sense of belonging and you are treated as another customer and not the only one. And most importantly, they do not have any knowledge of 7am in the morning. These salons claim to provide you with an experience of your lifetime, but then what can match the camaraderie of Balu and his scissor hands.
