What is it about haircuts that make young boys cringe? Is it the clickety-clack of the scissors or the lighting or the smell of cigarettes or the chairs?
I for one, remember this being a traumatic exercise as a a kid. Our father was one of those who had to have the shears out on the dot every month. All excuses - have a cold, have a fever etc - were to no avail. The lead up to the event had an almost-funereal air to it. It meant a ride in the good old Premier Padmini to the salon as soon as the sun was out, in order to beat the queue at the destination. In silence. This was one of those places on Lloyds Road ably manned by a crew of 3. I remember vaguely, admittedly, the scent of talcum powder, the sound of the hair blower, the old weathered fans and the rustling of old magazines and newspapers. Much like a visit to the dentist, one had to wait for their turn at the 'chair', while watching other victims go through the routine.
The walls had photographs of famous personalities posing with the chief barber. Thengai Srinivasan's photograph comes to mind. The other memory is one of a corner area in the barber shop which used to have a bed sheet draped over a make-shift curtain rod, serving as a curtain. Took me a visit or two to figure out that this mysterious corner was where they stored all the brooms, cleaning materials etc. Not where they put little boys refusing to get their hair cut.
When it used to be yours truly's turn, Appa's instructions to the head-barber were the same every time. 'Off with the hair!' Summer-cut style was in vogue year-round for the male of the species in our household. While the first few cuts with the scissors were akin to Gavaskar, the skillful artisan, negotiating an opening spell at a Lords test during a wet English summer, the rest of the strokes were brutal, if one were to ask a teary-eyed five year old for a post-innings report. Samson of why-did-you-do-this-to-me-O-Delilah fame would have empathized surely!
A silent prayer of 'please God don't make me go back there ever again' was not an atypical neurological response.
Fast forward, thirty five or so summers and things seem to have changed, but not by much, in nature's scheme of things. Accounting for evolution as an explanation for the evermore-confident five year old these days, the general inputs and outputs of the hair cut process remain the same. When it is time for Aneesh's hair cut, its coaxing and cajoling by the chaperon during the ride that saves the day, while the five year old in this case, rides kicking and screaming in the back seat of the automobile.
There is a look of Generation Z defiance as he takes the last few steps into the barber shop.
When it is time to get him to sit in the hot seat, bull-fighting seems like a stroll in the park. The peice-de-resistance is when the locks over the forehead go. Much like an Ali vs Frazier rope-a-dope affair, it is Aneesh vs the barber as the poor barber is forced to make those quick adjustments as he gets his feedback at the speed of light. Or whatever light that there is in the dimly-lit salon. Each round usually tends to end in a guffaw as if the barber is expending all the tension building up in his muscles during the fight. And when it is time to call the fight, the usual response from Aneesh tends to be a primal scream, followed by, 'I'm not leaving until you put the hair back !'
An expert opinion of 'it will grow back as soon as you wash your hair' from the accompanying parent usually does the trick as one tries to get the minor away from the scene of the crime and head back home.
Once at home and after a shower, the mirror is the next port of call as Aneesh starts his analysis of how much the hair has grown back.
Once he realizes quickly that society has lied to him about the mechanics and typical growth rate of human hair, his response is 'I'm never going back there again!'
-- Srivatsan Krishnan
I for one, remember this being a traumatic exercise as a a kid. Our father was one of those who had to have the shears out on the dot every month. All excuses - have a cold, have a fever etc - were to no avail. The lead up to the event had an almost-funereal air to it. It meant a ride in the good old Premier Padmini to the salon as soon as the sun was out, in order to beat the queue at the destination. In silence. This was one of those places on Lloyds Road ably manned by a crew of 3. I remember vaguely, admittedly, the scent of talcum powder, the sound of the hair blower, the old weathered fans and the rustling of old magazines and newspapers. Much like a visit to the dentist, one had to wait for their turn at the 'chair', while watching other victims go through the routine.
The walls had photographs of famous personalities posing with the chief barber. Thengai Srinivasan's photograph comes to mind. The other memory is one of a corner area in the barber shop which used to have a bed sheet draped over a make-shift curtain rod, serving as a curtain. Took me a visit or two to figure out that this mysterious corner was where they stored all the brooms, cleaning materials etc. Not where they put little boys refusing to get their hair cut.
When it used to be yours truly's turn, Appa's instructions to the head-barber were the same every time. 'Off with the hair!' Summer-cut style was in vogue year-round for the male of the species in our household. While the first few cuts with the scissors were akin to Gavaskar, the skillful artisan, negotiating an opening spell at a Lords test during a wet English summer, the rest of the strokes were brutal, if one were to ask a teary-eyed five year old for a post-innings report. Samson of why-did-you-do-this-to-me-O-Delilah fame would have empathized surely!
A silent prayer of 'please God don't make me go back there ever again' was not an atypical neurological response.
Fast forward, thirty five or so summers and things seem to have changed, but not by much, in nature's scheme of things. Accounting for evolution as an explanation for the evermore-confident five year old these days, the general inputs and outputs of the hair cut process remain the same. When it is time for Aneesh's hair cut, its coaxing and cajoling by the chaperon during the ride that saves the day, while the five year old in this case, rides kicking and screaming in the back seat of the automobile.
There is a look of Generation Z defiance as he takes the last few steps into the barber shop.
When it is time to get him to sit in the hot seat, bull-fighting seems like a stroll in the park. The peice-de-resistance is when the locks over the forehead go. Much like an Ali vs Frazier rope-a-dope affair, it is Aneesh vs the barber as the poor barber is forced to make those quick adjustments as he gets his feedback at the speed of light. Or whatever light that there is in the dimly-lit salon. Each round usually tends to end in a guffaw as if the barber is expending all the tension building up in his muscles during the fight. And when it is time to call the fight, the usual response from Aneesh tends to be a primal scream, followed by, 'I'm not leaving until you put the hair back !'
An expert opinion of 'it will grow back as soon as you wash your hair' from the accompanying parent usually does the trick as one tries to get the minor away from the scene of the crime and head back home.
Once at home and after a shower, the mirror is the next port of call as Aneesh starts his analysis of how much the hair has grown back.
Once he realizes quickly that society has lied to him about the mechanics and typical growth rate of human hair, his response is 'I'm never going back there again!'
-- Srivatsan Krishnan
