Of Boys and Men

If there is one thing that sets us men apart from the opposite sex, it is our barber shops. This is one place with an ambience of its own where we have our own space.  Just as we will never understand what really happens in those ladies beauty salons, women too will never fathom out our scene here. And I’m not talking about those fancy Unisex Places which are a far cry from the rustic hair cutting salons, the real men’s hairdressing salons.

I remember my first barber in Simla when I was about four. Before that, I had girlish hair, with ringlets, and I think my parents decided around now that it was time to show the world that they have a boy. Remember, this was 1954 and we had only just got rid of the Britishers, but their influence was still all pervasive. The barber used to come home to provide service and I remember him with his stiff upper lip and his immaculate dress. He used to come on a bicycle carrying a leather bag, much like a Doctor’s bag, with the tools of his trade. Once home, he would pull out a chair from the dining room and proceed to put on a clean white gown, again, quite like the Doctor’s gown. He would throw a white sheet across you, tuck you in, and proceed to clean his clippers, comb and scissors while you waited. Then he would start – first the clippers which often tickled and made me giggle, much to his annoyance, and then the scissors. He had a firm hand and once he had positioned your head at the angle he wanted, that was it. Should you try to move it ever so slightly, a hard grip on your head would quickly reposition it. And then there was something else which he had, which I’ve never seen anywhere else even till today, not even on Google – a mechanised scalp cleaner. it was a simple device, electrically operated, a hand held roller about 8 or 10 inches in diameter with bristles like a hair brush all around. Like a round porcupine. It was this part of the process I dreaded the most. After the haircut, he would plug the device in, it whirred and purred as it turned and he would use it to brush off the small hairs left over on your scalp after the haircut. Finally, it would all be over. He would pull off the sheet, the happiest part for me, I would run off while he dusted the sheet and brushed his coat and his hands.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After that it would be  Daddy’s turn. Daddy’s was a more elaborate procedure and included a shaving of the armpits, the cutthroat razor being honed to perfection on a leather strop, snipping off the nose hairs, a mini pedicure and manicure and I would watch from the sidelines, thankful that I did not have to go through all this.

 

Then we moved to the NDA at Khadakvasla when I was about 5 or 6. At the Academy, cadets are required to maintain military-style short hair and there is an entire retinue of barbers employed at the Barber Shop for this purpose. These lads, in their teens have rapidly growing hair, and need a haircut every few days if they have to avoid punishment. They can just walk into the Barber Shop, sit at any chair and get an establishment haircut in a matter of minutes. They don’t need to pay, it’s part of the service. These same barbers used their off time to groom the officers and their children offering home service, for a small charge of course.  Worked to mutual benefit. For a long time, while I was in school, this was the arrangement for my dad, and for me as well. The problem with these academy barbers was that having spent the whole day giving establishment haircuts, they knew no different, and you ended up looking fauji even if you did not want to. As I grew older, impressionable, conscious of looking good, and I saw my school friends with hair longer than I had ever had, I knew I needed to do something. So I rebelled, telling my folks I will no longer use the establishment barber who comes home, but will henceforth go to Victoria Hair Dressers instead, a Hair Dressing Salon in the Gole Market.  My parent’s response was quite simple, fine, whatever works for you. The barber there charged several times more than the other guy (still a ridiculous amount though) but he had a mirror and for the first time, I could actually see what was being done to me. Unlike the home haircut, which was done while sitting in a home chair, with no mirror, so you got to know what had happened only after it was all over.

One of the first bits of advise the new barber gave me was to tell me to let my hair grow slightly longer so that the next time I came, he would at least have something to cut and style. At that age, that wasn’t really much of a problem.

As children, we also used to visit our grandparents in Amritsar during our annual summer vacations. Our huge Kothi at 37 Hukam Singh Road was a joint family setup, my grandfather and his two brothers, their children – my uncles;  their children – my cousins, and we all used to live joyously and harmoniously together. If we were lucky (or unlucky, depending on how you looked at it), the family barber – an old man in a kurta and dhoti with thick glasses and a nice paunch – would set up camp in the lawn early in the morning on one of the Sundays while we were there. It was a major event and would go on till breakfast as all the men turned up one after another to take turns for their haircuts. The ladies would send tea and biscuits while the men waited and chatted. No real pecking order, but first would be the grandparents, each one taking his time and going the whole hog – haircut, shave, armpit shave, head massage, nail cuts,  – the full works. After that the next generation and then us ad hoc visitors – my dad and I.  More than the haircut, it was the male bonding of the whole family that took center stage. Men who were otherwise so busy in their jobs,  getting to gad together and also to enjoy the juicy gossip which the barber would share. Yes, one of the functions of the local barber was to play the part of bearer of news, tidings and gossip, which was not surprising as he interacted with almost all the families in the neighborhood.  More interestingly, he also often played the part of matchmaker. Many families with off-springs of marriageable age would send initial feelers through the barber to other families to check whether they would be interested and also get a few preliminary answers in place before making formal contact with the other side. Many arranged marriages owe their culmination to the local barber.

My Dad would generally be among the last to have his haircut and it was a ‘Barber’s Prank’ to trim one of his sideburns longer or shorter than the other. Apparently, this was a prank family barbers played on visiting family sons-in-law. And again, since there was no mirror, you were supposed not to be able to notice it at that time. Afterward, everybody, especially all the ladies would point it out turn by turn and have a giggle, even though, truly speaking, it was barely noticeable.

After school, at the Powai IIT in the late ‘60s, we flower children really let our hair down. The Beatles, Jim Morrison, John Fogerty, Jimmy Page and their type were our role models and sporting long hair like them was the way to be. It wasn’t styled the way theirs was, in our case, it just meant not going to the barber as often. Since I would visit Poona fairly regularly, my parents kind of got used to my growing hair look over a period of time and accepted it indifferently. But when I next went to Amritsar that summer,  my grandmother who was seeing me after a gap of nearly a year absolutely freaked out when she saw my mane for the first time. She grabbed me by the ear, put some money in my hand and insisted I go with my cousin to the barber right away and come back looking presentable. I had no option but to comply. My cousin took me to his long-time barber shop on Amritsar’s Lawrence Road, where the barber was a deaf-mute and was therefore called Goonga – which in Punjabi means exactly that. In today’s times, he would probably have been called hearing challenged, but then those were different days. He was Goonga. Communication with him was by hand gestures, and my cousin indicated to him with his thumb and forefinger that he should cut my hair only a little bit;  then he stepped out for a smoke. Goonga saw my mop of long hair and went at it.  Before I could say anything, it was all gone. When my cousin came back after his smoke and saw my short hair, he yelled at Goonga, and showed him his thumb and finger again, I told you to cut just a little bit off, didn’t I ? Goonga did a facepalm, and in his own way explained it was a misunderstanding. He hadn’t understood that he was supposed to snip just a little bit off,  he had thought he was supposed to leave just a little bit on. The happiest person that day was probably my grandmother. Actually, I wasn’t too unhappy either. Getting rid of the long hair felt good and I thought I looked really cool after the new haircut. Over the years I visited Goonga’s salon several times for haircuts and shaves during my annual visits to Amritsar, and we would laugh at what had happened on that first visit. In any case, I never grew my hair long again after that.

Then we moved to Nigeria. The Nigerian’s hair care is exactly like that of the NDA Cadets. Most of them have a clean scalp and their haircut is just a quick run-over of the scalp either with a clipper or with a razor. There were just a handful of barbers who could do a European Cut or a Caucasian Cut and I was told to go to Victor’s Salon at Excelsior Hotel –‘Victor is really good’ they all said. So there I was in Victor’s salon, two chairs but only one Victor, so when my turn came, Victor asked me, “How do you want it ?”.”Huh ?”, I said. “ I say, how do you want it, short or long ?” he repeated, tone getting harsh. Short didn’t seem like a good idea, so I said “Long”. He spent a few minutes carefully snipping one hair here and another one there, and I thought he will soon get his act right. But when he started to yank off the sheet, indicating it was over,  I told him, “Excuse me, I want it shorter than that, please”. Victor was not happy;  he put his scissors down and gave me a proper dressing down. “You better make up your mind one time how you want it, I don’t have the whole day just for you. Anyway, now you’re going to pay for two haircuts”. He then plugged in his electric clipper and gave me a real close crop. I sat quiet as a mouse and didn’t dare let out another squeak. It’ll grow eventually, I thought as I handed over to him US$ 5 which was his standard charge for a European Haircut. Anyway, considering I lingered on in Nigeria for a further 14 years after that, Victor and I got to know each other better and became good friends. I used to go there pretty often and so did Mohit. Some Indian ladies, the spouses of some Indian expatriates, were also into this business of giving home haircuts to Indians, but I still preferred Victor. No risks of any kind baba.

In Ghana too, the system was quite the same, here the barber was called Kwame. He used clippers for the most part, but switched to scissors for the final snips and finish. His place was always packed, mostly with idle hangers-on, watching television and discussing politics. It was almost like an interruption when I or any other customer came there and the gadding would continue mid-snip even as I sat on the chair being served.  The preliminaries consisted of Kwame opening various drawers and checking and choosing the best clipper and scissors from the stock. He would then proceed to clean them with a wad of cotton which he would drench in a watery liquid from a bottle labeled “Kills 99.99% germs (AIDS Germs Included)”. The label always made me wonder, does this stuff kill the Aids Germs or does it include the Aids Germs? Anyway, the advisory for his salon was to always carry your own instruments. One could never be sure where the instruments in his shop had been. A Binatone barbing set consisting of scissors, clippers, combs and a cleaning brush was available at all supermarkets and was considered a wise investment.

But without a doubt the best haircuts are the ones in India. A good barber knows just by looking at your face and hair,  how your hair needs to be cut, they won’t ask monosyllabic questions like short or long. Rather they ask you “Scissor or Clipper ?”; “Peeche Razor lagaein ya nahin ?”;  “Peeche slope ya natural ?”; And when at the end they show you their rearview mirror and ask “Theek Hai?” and you say, “Upar se thoda aur chota kar do”, they do it happily without screaming back at you. And then of course the finale, the knuckle cracking head champi, ooh man, what a great feeling. I’m of course not talking about the new Unisex Salons where a Valet will escort you to your chair and some fancy guy in tight jeans and a monogrammed Tee-shirt will snip at your scalp with gay abandon, one hair at a time, charge you a fortune for It and expect a tip as well.

Every time we came to India, a haircut for me at Verma’s Hairdressers close to the end of our stay was a must.  It would keep me going for a month, sparing me the need to visit Victor or Kwame for a while. Anybody seeing your shaved neck, shaped sideburns, and a haircut which had successfully eliminated all the trauma that your hair had been subjected to throughout the past year, could immediately tell from a distance, “India se ho ke aye ho?”

Those days, in the 1990’s Verma’s Hairdressers operated from a motor garage right across our house in Sector 29.  I think the Verma family had just migrated from troubled Kashmir and set up this trade. The place was well patronised, and senior Mr. Verma, the old man and patriarch was the one my Dad preferred for his haircut.  He had a leisurely way of doing things. I preferred his son, who used to do mine. Quick, efficient and business like. Often, my son Mohit too would accompany my Dad and me and it would become a family haircut. Those days, it used to cost less than 50 cents for a haircut, and a tip would have been insulting since it was the owners themselves doing the job. Today I think It’s the third generation of Vermas we see sitting at the till in their modern Noida Salons while salaried barbers serve the customers. I started to re-patronize Verma’s Salon after my return to India in 2011 and still continue to do so.  Attrition is high, and you end up having a different barber serving you each time. But they are all well trained, I’m less fussy too, so no complaints. It now costs US$ 4.00, and a tip is essential. This profession has been good for the Verma family, and they have opened franchises and also run hair care academies in many parts of Delhi.

During the thirty years that I lived outside India, I have had the opportunity to have had haircuts in many different places. Top hotels at which I’ve paid over 50 dollars for a haircut. Dubai, Washington, Singapore,  I have visited salons there just for the experience but always felt uncomfortable, ill at ease and cheated. Even Victor and Kwame were more homely.  Now,  at 67, and after a lot of haircuts, as I think back, there is no doubt in my mind that it is the Indian haircuts that are the ultimate.

But more than anything else, I definitely need to thank God that I still have hair on my head, unlike many of my contemporaries, and I hope that I can continue to enjoy my regular visits to my favorite barber.

Post-Script to 2020. How life takes a full circle.  One cannot think about going to a salon in these Covid times. So it’s back-to-home haircuts again, with Urban Clap professionals.