‘How would you like them cut?’ , my hairdresser had asked politely when I had gone for my first haircut in US many years ago.
I had stared at her uncomfortably because I had never been asked that question by my
hairdressers in India.
“Short” , I had mumbled, not knowing what else to say., My wife had squealed in horror after I had
come back to our apartment with my commando cut.
“Please don’t make it too short”, I had answered the same question
imploringly when I went for my next haircut several months later. Over the years
the instructions got more and more refined ‘Clippers on the side – size five
and a half please. Scissors on the top. Not too short - just take
an inch off. Leave the sideburns long.
Shampoo. No gel please’, I would rattle out without having to think and get (almost)
the same results whether I was in LA ,Washington DC or Boston.
‘Have you considered trying gray blending’ , I heard this suggestion a few years ago. Gray blending. The word had a nice mature ring
to it. It did not have the urgency of hair dying. Or the pretentiousness of hair
coloring. My hair had started to gray
with a vengeance in the past few years. Especially, after I had started my own
business. My mother had just a few
strands of gray hair at near sixty. My grandfather had a good crop of black
hair at eighty. I had more gray hair than both of them combined. I had somehow
let my gene pool down. ‘ It is perhaps the stress’ , I would explain half
apologetically.
‘We have a special going on ...’, she continued, blinking
her false eyelashes ‘ Tea Tree Treatment
- Free shampoo & head massage ..’ . The deal was made. Several degrees of ‘blending’
were tried. The color combination of the one that suited me best was then recorded
in the database. I could now go to any Supercuts in US and just tell them my
name – they would then pull up my record and blend my grays like nobody ‘s
business.
And then we moved to Bangalore.
***
“New Paradise Men's Saloon”, the barber shop is located on the main road,
about half a kilometer from our house in
Bangalore.
‘Are you sure you don’t want to look for a bit more upscale place?’
, my wife had suggested looking at the crowd of the patrons sitting on wooden
benches inside the shop. But what did
she know about the pleasure one would get from an authentic experience of
getting a haircut from a roadside barber shop.
‘You and your authentic experiences’, she did not like my
response apparently as I expertly maneuvered my scooter around a huge pothole. I
had bought the scooter despite warnings and threats from my close friends. ‘Authentic
experience my foot’ , one had said ‘ You know it takes much
longer to heal a broken bone once you are past forty ..’. But I prevailed. My Honda Activa was not only an
authentic experience; it was also my
companion in looking for other authentic experiences. Like a haircut from a roadside Barber shop.
I parked my scooter outside the shop, glad that I did not
get the car which would have perhaps overwhelmed the patrons and owner of the shop.
The proprietor – a man with neatly combed hair and smartly trimmed moustache
serviced the customers diligently, as I waited for my turn. A television played
a Kannada movie dubbed in Hindi – the out of sync dialogs were punctuated by the
clicking of scissors. The shop was well furnished with hair products. On one
side were different type of hair oils – Himgangay,
Jabakusim, Parachute, Navratan . Hair colors were also displayed prominently
– Godrej, Revlon, Garnier.
‘Your turn, Sir’ , the hairdresser addressed me politely.
I took a deep breath as I settled down in the wooded chair
and got draped by a clean white cotton sheet that was neatly tucked along my
neck. Authentic experience.
‘Do you have clippers’, I asked. The man stared at me
puzzled. ‘ ..to cut the hair ...’ Still
no response. I took my right arm out and showed him how the clipper worked. His
eyes shone.”Machine”, he pulled a manual clipper out of the drawer.
‘Clippers on the side – size five and a half please. Scissors on the top. Not too short - just take an inch off. Leave the sideburns long. Shampoo. No gel please’
.. I rattled out. The man stared at me, puzzled.
‘You want haircut? ’, he asked after a long pause. I nodded.
‘Please sit, sir – I do haircut ‘
***
I looked at my hair admiringly. The man knew his job. This was perhaps the best haircut I had got
in many years – and he did it without any instructions! I was so pleased that I wanted to try out all
the services he had to offer.
Gray blending ? I
looked at the hair color products in the shelf in front of me and decided to
give it a shot. My man Friday looked extremely
pleased that his patron was interested in the most expensive service offered in
the saloon. Even the customers waiting
on the benches seemed interested. Everyone in the shop watched as our hairdresser
got a stepping stool, reached out and retrieved a box of Garnier hair color
from the shelf in front of us, mixed it in a dirty plastic bowl and started to furiously
applying it on my head with a brush.
I soaked the authentic experience as ceiling fan cooled my
wet colored hair. The man worked expertly, wiping the dripping color from my
face. I had never got my hair colored facing a mirror. I realized that it was messy.
I had been spared of reviewing this mess in the past since there were no
mirrors in the coloring booths in Supercuts. You would actually see the results
after everything was done. The color
washed, hair shampooed and patted dry and the hairdresser giving you well rehearsed
compliment as she took you back to your chair. “You look like a new person !’
Today, I was looking at all the mess that I used to miss out
in the past. Head smeared with color. Authentic experience. And that is when my communication with my new hairdresser
stopped abruptly. I was waiting for him to say or do something to get me
cleaned up from the messy hair color. He was also waiting for me to say or do something
– what? I was not sure of.
I then realized that something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
There was not a single wash basin in the shop. Not a single faucet. No washing
station. No towels. No shampoo.
‘Please go home and shampoo’, the guy’s voice boomed across
the room. The movie in television echoed an extended gunfire.
***
That day I learnt several things.
That never wear light colored T shirt when you go for a haircut.
You never know when you could be subjected to an authentic experience.
That wife gets pretty mad if you ruin a polo T shirt with
hair dye.
That people do notice when you drive a scooter with your
head smeared with color. Sometimes enough to actually turn back and stare at
you. Or giggle.
That the stern security guards of our gated community do
laugh once in a while. When they see a
new resident riding a scooter with color dripping from his sideburns.
And that authentic experiences come with
authentic learnings !
END