The Barber Shop

A couple of years ago, I had published a write-up that captured some snapshots of my childhood, a short summary of my life in the 70s’. “Life in a Colony” would seem to be a far cry today, thanks to our evolution as a global village with the “virtual” world metamorphosing into our playground and our time spent plotting inter-planetary holidays.

While to some it might have rekindled memories of a lost utopian world, to younger generations it could come with a sigh of relief definitely, of having escaped a time-warp. In order to re-live or discover a bit more, I invite you to accompany me on one such journey which will take you back in time by almost half a century.

To those familiar with the heydays of the 70s', it was a perfect setting with the right mix of intriguing elements - an era when the KGB flirted with the CIA and the cold war sidled into the iron curtain. My humble beginnings too can be linked to a defence enterprise where my dad worked. With radars and many such that I cannot share more, “Hush!” was the word.

The “colony”, not to be confused with the erstwhile colonies of England or other countries as such, was a large gated community, secured by kilometres of barbed wire, numerous boom gates and many officers to guard. Atop some of the factory’s tall buildings sat metal grid-like structures, huge and menacing. Swinging slowly, they seem to scrutinise the horizon constantly. As a five-year old, I was pretty sure that it beamed images of spies or that it “dit-dah” and dashed Morse code messages busily, meant to catch them.

The colony’s sprawling grounds were filled with white buildings sitting in rows. These were soon filled with young couples and happy families complete with their tots. With a variety of conveniences ranging from a milk bar to the laundromat, from the barber to the butcher and a post office, we lacked precious little.

There was also a tiny shoe-size shop, inside which sat a paan vendor, selling "paans" (a chewable betel leaf-areca nut-tobacco preparation popular in India) who also doubled as the tobacconist. An amputee with a wooden leg, he was a source of morbid curiosity amongst us children.

Following the fashion trend of the period, my parents endeavoured to coiffure me in a “bobbed” hair cut. Thus began a ritual where once every month, dad and I cycled to the barber shop. With moms taking their afternoon siesta, the Sunday afternoon was just perfect for dads to primp and perm and discuss politics. I was the only child around, holding my dad’s hands and looking lost. The tall, reedy looking barber would usher us and gesture to take an empty chair while waiting. He seldom spoke but he always smiled at me showing his red, paan-stained teeth.

The shop’s grey drab exterior belied its interior. Like stepping into a magical world, it was filled with bottles of lotions and jars of creams in many pretty colours. Sitting neatly atop the polished brown cabinets were brushes of varying sizes and scissors, big and small. Combs of different shapes were placed within easy reach. Tall chairs, upholstered in bright red stood proudly staring into the large mirrors hung on all four walls.

Customers sat stiffly on the chairs wrapped in crisp, white cotton sheets. Shiny scissors darted quickly and dangerously, adding metallic rhythm in snips and clicks. The air was occasionally punctuated with misty, watery jets. Finishing with a quick dusting of talcum powder here and a brusque brushing there, a pat of Brylcreem and the sheets were whisked off. Viola! dads stepped out - soaped, shaved, slicked, scented, smart and smiling.

All this while I sat mesmerised in this “Hall of Mirrors” where reflections were caught and thrown back. After I had checked my visage from all possible angles, I turned my attention to the coffee table, stacked with magazines. Popular publications like the Illustrated Weekly of India, film magazines such as Filmfare and Stardust and some vernacular ones, from serious political reading to flippant entertainment, there was enough cud for varying tastes.

With dad’s head held stiffly by the barber and concerted efforts put to save ears and bloody nicks, little did he know that his only child was exploring new literary frontiers and lapping up information from such arbitrary sources of wisdom as I grabbed the glossy covered books whose pages were filled with colourful images of dashing men and ravishingly made-up ladies.

There were also some interesting gossip columns to read. Neeta's Natter in Stardust was presented by a bejewelled black feline, which was mostly about catfights amongst leading women and who was sleeping with whom. The Hollywood section was viewed with much trepidation too, peeking quickly at the beauties in their décolleté or staring at swooning stars in the arms of their paramour.

As the barber ran his fine-toothed comb and tiny scissors to tackle the stragglers from the male crowns, I reached for the Illustrated Weekly, a large magazine of size I could easily lose myself in, let alone its contents. In addition to the nation’s politics and other topics of debate, it also introduced me to parlour games such as Bridge and Chess. I was also entertained by crosswords and cartoons. Being a weekly, there were four issues to catch up on each visit and I hastily flipped through them before it was my turn to clamber up on those tall chairs.

I must have been around eight or nine when I started paying close attention to (late) Kushwant Singh’s column “With malice towards one and all” in the Illustrated Weekly. I did not know much about the author or what he was writing about.

But the cartoon depicting a man sitting inside a light bulb or “globe” (as known in Australia) with pen and paper definitely attracted me. Eventually, I realised that his pen was indeed sharp and filled with barbs. But I always remember giggling each time he wrote with malice and directed it at many.

All along, my brain was working overtime, busy filing away interesting words and catchy phrases into its deep recesses. Perhaps, this aided in my good performance at English spelling tests. I was also hooked on crosswords for life. As years went by, my dad’s hairline receded and the visits to the barber shop petered down. Keeping with traditions, my mom decided it was time for me to grow pig tails. (PC: The Illustrated Weekly)

Slowly, my visits to the barber shop stopped and I missed the magazines and the fascinating “Hall of Mirrors” immensely. Teenage girls were no longer welcomed into the men's salon but the times that I walked past the shop, I was sure to catch the red-toothed grin and a quick wave of hand. Finally, when my dad retired, it was time to say goodbye to the colony.

Busy pursuing university and later a job, I spent remaining time mastering culinary skills in order to land the perfect matrimonial match. The Illustrated Weekly stopped its publication in 1993 and closed down. Kushwant Singh died in 2014, almost a centenarian. Time flew by and I became a mom to two boys.

And of course, I had no qualms about walking into a men’s salon to get their haircut. My nonchalance must have been shocking, but the barbers made no comment. They turned away sheepishly as I transgressed the male domain. While the nervous barber snipped and my boys squealed and squirmed, I sat truly in my elements, with a book in my hand that I had brought along thoughtfully. I had come home, minus the Hall or Mirrors.

It is interesting to note that in medieval times, barbers performed surgery on customers as well as tooth extractions. In Paris circa 1210, they were known as barber surgeons of the short robe. In Renaissance-era Amsterdam, the surgeons used the colored stripes to indicate that they were prepared to bleed their patients (red), set bones or pull teeth (white), or give a shave if nothing more urgent was needed (blue). Thus, the Barber’s pole evolved. (Courtesy: Wikipedia).

Today as I reminisce about my childhood, I make a humble homage to the one who in addition to my hair cuts also helped me cut my teeth on works by stalwart Indian journalists and gossip columnists of the highest standards. He was called Kesava.

In Sanskrit, this means "the one with beautiful long (unshorn) hair". Ironic, I thought, fondly recalling a tall, reedy barber with a warm smile. Little wonder that nostalgia on many occasions reeked in a combined perfume of paper and pomade.