It was an ordeal of sorts for many of us—the compulsory monthly haircut at our boarding school in Tiruchy in the 1950s. Few liked to have their painstakingly grown locks trimmed, let alone sheared off—and for a good reason.Elvis Presley—the king of rock ‘n’ roll—was our much-loved idol then and most of us tried to emulate his puffed hairstyle—something the spoilsport warden frowned upon. He opined that a crew-cut suited us, and Tiruchy’s sultry weather, better. So, fearing that we might be ‘scalped’, we drew upon all our reserves of charm to persuade Dasan, the surly school barber, to minimise his snipping and shearing so that we didn’t look like skinheads! He grudgingly obliged us.
Covered in a bedsheet, we squatted on a stool (submissively for once!) under a shady tamarind tree that sheltered several crows. These pests would impudently ‘bomb’ us with their droppings now and then. If Dasan was targeted, he would glare up balefully and utter an unprintable oath, much to our amusement. “Don’t fidget!” Dasan would snap sometimes, his clean-shaven face morose. “Or I may snip off a bit of your ear!” That was enough to make us freeze, fearing cosmetic damage. None dared to fool around with him knowing that ‘barbaric’ treatment would be meted out.
One guy with a nice ‘Elvis puff’ crowning his head once nettled the barber by running his hair-clipper up the trunk of the tamarind tree and damaging it. He was unceremoniously packed off with his head half-shaven as punishment. The poor chap never quite lived down the embarrassment and the ribbing of his pals. Thereafter none ever dared to fall foul of Dasan.Not even a thunderstorm could keep Dasan away on the due date. Keeping hirsuteness in check was his mission in life and sole means of livelihood.
We boys used to fervently hope that he wouldn’t turn up to trim down our nicely burgeoning Elvis hairdos; but he always did, clad in a white shirt and dhoti carrying a rexine bag containing the tools of his trade.
Once, fondling some fuzz sprouting on his chin, a narcissistic teenager grinned his way ingratiatingly up to Dasan and requested to be shaved. The barber eyed him gravely, unsure whether his leg was being pulled. Then, realising the boy was serious, the faintest trace of a smile creased his leathery face. “Come back after five years!” he grunted dismissively.