I've often wondered what goes through a hairdresser's mind as he/she starts on yet another head. The same nice, thick mass of hair that at the beginning of his shift presents an avenue for artistry must feel like some impenetrable rainforest undergrowth towards the end of it. But for a job that involves more than its fair share of repetitiveness, barbers are generally a good-natured lot. An Italian barber in Ottawa once told me Indians have very healthy, thick hair. He claimed he had offers from some hairdresser in Bombay. Between extolling the virtues of Indian wigs sold in Toronto, he asked me whether there was a pressing need for barbers in India. I said I knew of no such crisis. I don't think he believed me. Barbers, irrespective of where they are from -- and there's a bewildering spread of nationalities in Ottawa -- maintain fairly decent levels of consistency. I mean, I haven't seen too many really bad barbers. A barber in Ottawa has a set of sophisticated-looking instruments at his disposal, but like wise men say in cricket, a full toss still has to be put away. When I see the clippers and the tweezers and the trimmers, my mind wanders to a small barbershop -- as they are referred to in Kerala -- in Calicut. It had none of these, but still managed the best haircut I have ever had. Right next to the Calicut University campus, at the exotically named Kohinoor bus stop, there was this small barbershop. New Style, it was called. I think it's still called that. The chief barber's name, quite appropriately, was Sundaran. Which, in Malayalam, means 'he who is handsome'. He was the only barber there in whom my friends and I had implicit trust. He was firm and assured. There was always a motley collection of Malayalam dailies scattered in his shop. Some hangers-on would be there all the time, holding discussions on one social problem or the other. We'd generally study the sports pages intently, looking up from time to time to see whether Sundaran was motioning to us, indicating our turn. You were never very sure who'd come in first. Sundaran was the final arbiter. We had unquestioning faith in his fairness. Spotting Sundaran turning the revolving chair toward us, you would self-consciously put away the newspaper and shuffle up. The chair and its padded upholstery were overt symbols of affluence in a barbershop. Once you were in the chair, Sundaran would assume firm command. "How do you want it?" "Medium. Not too much, not too little." He'd then take a glass bottle, which had in its heyday contained some perfume manufactured in the Gulf (as the whole of the Middle East is collectively known in India). Operating a creaking lever, he'd spray water on your hair. And, then, he would do this amazing little massage. At first, it would feel like he's hell-bent on testing the elastic limits of your neck. But later, you would learn to look forward to this particular little sequence. Your head went first this way and then the other; it had the effect of coming out of a fainting spell. It made you very relaxed. Then, as he continued with the rest of the haircut, you'd still feel the soothing after-effects of his early violence. Once he was done with your sideburns, about which generally most teenaged boys are pretty touchy, he'd ask that dreaded question: "Can I use the knife?" What he meant was whether he could use a knife to trim the hair off your neck. This was when you had to be at your most alert and decisive. If in a weak, indecisive moment, you said 'yes', you'd pay for it when you took a shower. For, with the hair, invariably, came off quite a bit your skin! But, really, that was his only weakness. The rest of the haircut was close to perfect. Your head might feel like it had just gone through a squeezer. But, undeniably, it felt a good deal clearer too. That, above all else, is the sign of a good haircut. Or so my friends and I stubbornly maintain. Besides a good haircut, Krishna Kumar enjoys good cricket. Illustration: Uttam Ghosh Tell us what you think of this diary Be part of an exciting venture! Write a Diary!
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