When I was just one year old, and growing up with my grandmother, the last Sunday of every month was “hair-cutting day” and come what may my grandmother would ensure that I had my hair cut in the early morning. The “barber” as he was then called was an old man who came to our house at first light with his tools wrapped in a brownish white cloth. A wooden plank was placed in the courtyard away from the enclosure which held the “tulsi” plants and I was asked to sit down on it wearing only my short pants and shirtless. The barber was an emaciated old man wearing a lungi and nothing else. I hated being subjected to this hair cutting treatment as I felt like a sacrificial goat waiting for the sword. The barber had clippers (now extinct) and with this he ran through my hair like a mower across a lawn.
The process was painful and as more and more hair was shorn off the blade cut deeply into my tender scalp sending waves of agony through me. To avoid this, I kept jerking my head and this made it worse as the blades nicked my scalp. The barber would scream invectives at me and would order me to keep still. As a last resort he would place my head between his legs in a vice-like grip and continue to shear away. I would shout blue murder and this would bring my grandmother running to see whether I was really being killed. She would admonish the barber and ask him to be more gentle and at the same time order me sternly to keep still; she would remind me not to enter the house after the hair cut but to go around the house to the backyard and take an oil bath in the hot water which would be boiling in a brass cauldron, before setting foot into the house.
The barber would be finally finished after about 20 minutes and I would get up looking very much like a plucked chicken about to be put into the pot. My body would be covered with hair which would add to my irritation. I would give my blackest scowl to the barber and in my heart would consign him and all his ilk to the farthest regions of hell. He would gently smile at me, while gathering his tools and tell me ingratiatingly that he would meet me again next month. I would yell at him that he was a cold-blooded murderer who killed young boys like me by shaving off their heads and run to the backyard for my bath.
Now about half a century later, I call up my barber (oops sorry, my hairdresser) for an appointment on next Sunday at 11 a.m. and present myself at the hour at his air-conditioned saloon; soft music soothes my nerves. The hairdresser motions me to go to the washing room to have my hair shampooed. Lukewarm water gently caresses my hair as he pours shampoo and washes my hair. After that I sink myself into the deep leather upholstery of the swiveling chair. He drapes a laundered white sheet smelling faintly of detergent across me and covers my neck with tissue paper; he takes out scissors and comb and gently, begins snipping at the hair extremities.
I sink into a gentle nap only to be awakened by the hairdresser who holds a mirror behind me and asks me whether this was fine or it should be shortened further. I nod, conveying that this was okay. He courteously enquires whether I would be requiring a head massage (`100 extra) or a facial massage (`150 extra). I step out looking and feeling neat, spruced up and slightly smelling of cologne.