Yet Another Haircut Post

I had solemnly resolved to avoid the saloon at college at all costs. I stayed true to my word for 8 entire months, during the course of which my scalp was subjected to the worst kinds of tortures imaginable that scalps should have to endure. Having to bear the excess weight of long hair, a generous amount of sebum, the occasional loss of a strand of hair which for some reason worried me more than it made me happy, lice, scabies, cotton from my torn pillow, you name it. Alas, today was the day I could stand it no longer. It was with a great deal of trepidation that I approached the exotic saloon named "Eagle Beauty Saloon - For gents and kids only" built a storey above the convenience store. 'Eagle Beauty Saloon'? 'Eagle'? I don't know if it's just me but eagles have always struck me as creatures that one can relate with grace, finesse, even the Thor - The God of war, but a beauty saloon called Eagle? Ever heard of a 'bald Eagle'? Sweat began to collect in the creases of my forehead as I began to consider every possible connotation of the word 'Eagle'. Could they mean 'golden eagle'? I'd have a fit if they tried anything akin to streaking my hair golden. I stopped when I realised that my knowledge of eagles and their hidden meanings is somewhat limited.

As I waited on a seat for my turn, I began to inspect the room. A fancy apartment-turned-atelier sort of place with parallel mirrors to make it look bigger. A television showing videos of tamil songs rested on a shelf in the corner. From time to time, one of the barbers would stop snipping, and start dancing to one of the songs. This, in turn, would lead to the other barbers casting aside their equipments and singing and clapping to the song. The camaraderie among the barbers and the jovial atmosphere was heartwarming, though I failed to grasp the significance of this particular ritual. When I was summoned with the "First Coming!" call from one of the barbers, I had made up my mind to be done with the ordeal once and for all and braced myself for the worst. My barber turned out to be a pseudo-hippy-cum-Prabhu Deva wannabe, the worst of the lot.

As I stared at my reflection in front of me, I felt a sudden change in the tide of emotions pertaining to my hair. I suddenly began to feel protective of them, unwilling to subject them to the torture of this hippy's blades. It's strange how persistent that feeling can be. The last and only time I'd got my hair cut at Habib's, I'd pictured a cool poster-boy look to my face. Being overwhelmed by more than disappointment after the haircut, I'd seriously considered pasting the bunches back on my head and asking for a refund of my 280 bucks! It's a good thing I didn't tip the guy. How on earth do you tip a guy who charges 500 bucks for a haircut anyway? Coming back to my present situation, I found myself seated in front of one of those shiny, grossly illuminated mirrors which tend to display more of you than is practically necessary. The barber, by now, was deeply engrossed in his tedious task of squirting water from the sprayer all around the place, not a drop of which touched my hair. Granted, it's a difficult task to balance a sprayer in one hand and a razor in the other while singing an incomprehensible love song with animated actions to your giggling friend. I wonder, if there was something going on between the two.

The purpose of having decorated the room with lilac paint and shiny mirrors and given it a hip and swank appearance was lost on me as I don't think I saw a single instrument apart from the scissor and comb in the barber's hands, remotely related to hair. No alum, no powder, no long plastic stick with a blade that I commonly refer to as 'long plastic stick with a blade'. So the very act of cutting made it seem like each individual strand of my hair was being pulled viciously from its roots. I think the guy was planning to get away without bothering to shave away the exorbitant amount of hair that had accumulated on my sidelocks, but I gave him the stink eye and he reluctantly produced the long plastic stick with the blade, hidden away in his drawer. This was probably not a good idea. I was too consumed with my present predicament to consider the effects of placing a razor blade on a plastic stick in the hands of a singing-dancing-Prabhu-Deva wannabe and possibly homo barber. I realised this too late, not until the blade lingered a moment too long on my neck. Why the fuck was he shaving my neck in the first place? Images of Sweeney Todd began to pass through my head. Johnny Depp flashed before my eyes, weilding his lethal scissorhands....err, no, just blades. I began to grope for my last words, trying to make them as valiant and poetic as the present situation would allow. If it were Johnny Depp splitting my throat, a sincere "Oh gee, it's an honour to be killed by you, sir!" would have been enough but what could I possibly say to this guy, who in all probability, would not even recognise a blast of poetic brilliance if it hit him in the face.

Thankfully, the barber might have been a lot of things, but apparantly he wasn't a murderer making meat-pies out of his victims. The ordeal being over, I got out of my seat briskly and asked him how much I owed him. He was now busy spraying lavender room freshener( that smelled suspiciously of mosquito repellant) into the air conditioner.
"Twent-Thirty!" he evetually replied
Since I knew of no such number I thrust a twenty buck note in his hand and stuck him with a fierce look, challenging him to protest. He seemed to have thought better of it as he quickly turned away and summoned his next customer with the usual "First coming!" holler. And as this next victim made his way to the flashy mirror, I began to search for my lost hair and possibly, a bottle of glue!