Humor: A Hair-Raising Tale
MAHADEV DESAI dreaded going to the hair salon because of the barber’s razor. His musings on a long-held fear of scratches will have the reader in stitches.
A couple of years ago, every month, my wife tauntingly reminded me to pay the dreaded visit to a hair salon owned by Rosini, my Italian tonsorial artist.
“When are you going for a haircut and a shave? You look like a violin player on the London underground! When I gave you that little peck on your cheek, it was like kissing a copper brush!” she would admonish.
Fortunately, the interval between these ordeals is gradually increasing as with advancing age. I am fighting a losing battle against not only vanishing hair but also increasing grey in my hair! Like countless other gullible consumers trying to salvage their vanity, I, too, have been conned into trying various shampoos, soaps, hair oils, tints, dyes, conditioners and what have you. I have surreptitiously subjected my poor hair to yogurt, lemon juice, shikakai soap, Brahmi hair oil, Okasa tint, crushed henna powder, etc. But to no avail. I am now even scared to comb my hair because every time I pass a comb through my hair, it gets clogged with my increasingly precious hair. I know it is only a matter of time before I have a shining pate like Agassi or Kojak or Yul Brynner! My cue-like dome will probably serve as a landing strip for blood-thirsty mosquitoes.
Every morning, as I look at my head in the mirror, I hum “sar ki kheti sookh rahi hai” (a la film actor David in Raj Kapoor’s film). How I wish my head could have a tel maalish, a heavenly oil head massage, from Johnny Walker of Bollywood!
As I think back to the days when I had a full head of hair, I remember my childhood spent in Kenya. When I was in pre-teens, my brothers and I underwent a Brahmin’s rite of passage—the sacred thread ceremony—when, despite howls of protest, our scalps were shaved clean, and we all ended up looking like Tibetan child monks! Fortunately, like grass growing on parched land after a monsoon rainfall, hair grew back on our shaved heads.
In those days, our barber Valji, just like our family doctor, made house calls on his rickety bike carrying assorted pairs of scissors, razors, combs and other paraphernalia in a rusty biscuit tin. He was almost a standing and talking version of Khabar magazine, so well informed of community goings-on. At times, he even acted as a matrimonial go-between.
After a few years of his demise, a newly arrived barber from Rajkot opened a salon. I vividly remember my first visit. As I entered the salon, he reassured me, “Look at your long hair and stubble. Why you look like a homeless urchin! But don’t worry, within half an hour, I will transform you into Prince charming.”
I sat in the swivel chair, feeling like a sacrificial lamb, and closed my eyes, silently praying that he better have steady hands. He covered my shirt with a soiled apron and sprayed my hair with cold water. It sent a shiver through my body. He was very loquacious. He picked a pair of worn-out scissors and merrily hacked away my hair. Snip, snip went his scissors as he talked about India and its crime, corruption, poverty, etc. At times, he jerked my head sideways, sometimes up and down, and even pulled at my hair. Ouch! But I kept a brave face throughout and restrained myself from screaming.
Once done with my haircut, he proceeded to attack the overgrowth on my face. “Let me now give you a smooth shave,” he said, showing me his razor. “See this, it was made in Germany. I have used it for twenty years. It will last me a lifetime,” he boasted.
He began honing and stropping it. He then wetted my stubby cheeks with cold water from a small metal bowl and applied shaving soap on my face. As the sharp steel met my delicate skin, I felt nervous. He then began talking about cricket. As he got excited, he began gesticulating wildly with his right hand, which held the menacing cutthroat razor like a lethal weapon. I prayed that he wouldn’t slash my carotid artery or slit my ear. I had no inclination to be known as Van Gogh Jr.
He patted a little talcum powder after he was done, probably to cover up his butchery. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had used ashes instead. I got out of the chair, teary-eyed and feeling like a shorn lamb. My face had several nicks and cuts. The sideburns and the nape of my neck were stinging as if fire ants had stung me. After I paid him (no tips in those days), he said, “You look handsome—like Dev Anand. Don’t forget to bring along your brothers too.”
I nodded even as I felt like Samson in Samson and Delilah. I wished I had a basketball cap or a turban. My wife took one look at my face and said, “Have you joined sword fighting classes?”
Already annoyed, my anger burst.
“For five shillings, do you expect me to get a haircut from Vidal Sassoon?” I bellowed.
Well, needless to say, I never went back to that salon. Even now, in my nightmares, when I see him, my hair stands on edge like a porcupine’s quills. Though I still go to various hair-cutting salons for a haircut, I prefer to shave in the comfort of my bathroom. Not that I enjoy shaving. Every morning, with the fog of sleep clouding my cranium, I stand bleary-eyed in front of the mirror to finish the boring task of shaving. Like Bernard Shaw, I often feel like growing a beard. He, too, hated shaving—he thought it was a waste of time. Why, he could write an entire novel in the time he thus saved! I still dread the cutthroat razor. Instead, I use a disposable twin blade razor—a product of our throwaway society. Sometimes I try to flog the razor to death.
“When are you going to trash that old razor? Even after shaving, your face looks like an overgrown lawn! It’s a pity you can’t take it to Home Depot for sharpening because I know you would love to do that,” my wife admonishes me, as she throws the razor into the trash bin.
As to my hair, I am still not resigned to a hairless dome. I believe that, as in the tire retreading business, baldness can be cured. I was a firm supporter of hair au naturel. But now I do not wish prematurely to look like Michael Jordan, nor do I have a desire to attend the Bald is Beautiful convention.
I understand from a CNN factoid that the average head has about 150,000 hairs. I may have 15,000 left. But, well, who is counting? Hope springs eternal. Who knows, I may yet be tempted to try the much-vaunted magic elixir Rogaine or a hair transplant. On the other hand, how about a wig?
Mahadev Desai has been a prolific reporter for the Indian community in Atlanta, and is an avid freelance writer.
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