It was twenty-five years ago, on a hot summer morning in a forgotten dusty suburb of Tiruchirapalli that my story begins. This place is what we call “The Estate”, the reason for which is another story. The mango blossoms were in full bloom intoxicating the air with their smell. Millions of bees flew about in our garden gathering their wares.
That day a subordinate of my father’s came to our house. I learnt very quickly that the fellow, Mohan, also moonlighted as a barber. I remember now wondering how, with so young a name and at 35, he looked as though he was 50. For a barber he had no hair- not one sprig, anywhere on his head, and the face was pockmarked after a childhood battle with the pox. He also had 10 children, for all of whom he was the chief hairdresser (I overheard my father tell my mother that he had been on a son-hunt, to try until you get that son to carry your “name” forward). I listened in alarm as Mohan described his monthly ritual of hair- trimming his kids. He would sit them down in an old wooden chair with planks that he could raise or lower according to the height of his kids. Then he would brandish this vessel (“patra” in Telugu), and place it on the head of the unfortunate kid and trim around the vessel. He proudly described himself as the inventor of the “patra cut”. In my young imagination run amok, I could see 10 tormented souls roaming the streets of the estate with their heads shaped like a vessel. Upon hearing the story, I tried to extricate myself from the situation. But it was not to be, and the monthly ritual began under the mango trees in our garden. With the bees going about their business, things started going awry very quickly. There would be an occasional attack of bees, while I was totally at the mercy of an irate Mohan who tried to finish the job with one hand, while trying to ward away the bees with the other. All this while I was swaying this way and that to avoid the bees! The end result varied from an almost bald pate to one that did look like a “patra cut”. They say time flies when one has a good time. In this case, time took a nice casual stroll, while I agonized for 5 years.
However, the tide changed when I finally graduated to a “saloon-cut”, with professionals. At that time in our estate, there was this one “saloon” owned by an old man who resembled movie actor “Major” Soundararajan of Tamil movies of the 70s. The old man’s son, who was perpetually under training it seemed, would be given the opportunity of cutting mine every time I came in the door. My bad luck with hair-cuts continued with this son. I sat paranoid while hearing the father instruct the son from a neighboring chair where sat another petrified patron. Occasionally he would scream “Ayyo!!!!! Enna panrei kazhudhei!” (What have you done you worthless ass!!). A few obscenities followed that I hardly comprehended then. The old man would take over. Then, after a few clips here and there, I would quickly be packed off home, not knowing the havoc wrought on my head. I did not know at that point that the customer could actually be given a view of the backside of the head with a strategically-positioned mirror. The worst part of these hair-cuts was the trip back home. All my friends lived close by, and I had to pass by their houses to hoots and cries of “Ennada? Kilavan menjittana?” (So the old man mowed it down eh?).
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The eighties rolled by. There was a realization in the estate, like the 60s in the rest of the world. Another saloon emerged in competition. Everything was radically different in this new shop. This new one was run by a seemingly swashbuckling young man from the city. He wore flashy “terricot” shirts, wore a loud watch on his wrist that spelt “Citijen” and had the hairdo of Rajnikanth, the reigning folk-hero of the estate. His shop was quite a thing to observe too. There were nothing but calendars and posters of scantily-clad women. Needless to say, the shop was filled with men, half of whom came to ogle at them pictures. For a 15-year old, it was a different experience alright. After the several pictures of Lord Muruga and the old man’s dead parents and grandparents in the “other” shop, this was a change. However, the hair-cuts were no better. As it turned out, the new barber had a serious lack of talent which he made up with the tantalizing distractions. It did not seem as though any of his clientele really cared though. The 80s went by with everyone looking as though they had been through a weed-whacker.
School and college came and went, quite uneventfully. There was this one time in college, when I went for a haircut. It was new, and the man who worked there had come from a hair-cutting school, which was unheard of then. Most people (all men) learn from their fathers, as though it was an ancestral trade. Here was a man, all of 18 years, who displayed QUALIFICATIONS in the form of a certificate! I was impressed, for I sensed the end of the road for my misfortune. That is when the quiz started: What size cutter to use, rolled up or down in the back, executive or summer fashion… I flunked the quiz, and came out looking just like my previous 10 years.
After graduation, I came to the United States. I thought it would be different now, since I was on another continent.
I was in Chicago in another barber shop. This time, the barber was an old man called Charlie. He liked to talk up a storm while cutting hair. He had an aquarium choked with fish. He claimed he caught all of them, although I suspected he bought most of them. Who catches a little shark in a lake? Charlie once told me this story about this Indian kid who had once come in for a haircut. When asked, what kind of haircut he wanted, he demanded that Charlie shave all the hair off. Since it was not his policy to question people’s choice of fashion, he did as he was asked. After the 5 minutes that it took to shave all of it off, the kid asked that he collect all the hair, put it in a paper bag and give it to him. I realized then this story was about a friend of mine, who had shaved his hair to send home to Lord Venkateshwara of Tirupathy. This was the first time though that I was hearing of it in third person. Charlie continued “That kid came back a couple of months later. I don’t forget a face like that easily. He came and he sat down and asked for a haircut. I couldn’t stop myself from asking if he wanted it - for here or to go.”
An idea struck me then. I decided to do something different that I should have done a long time ago - something that would end the agony once for all.
I told him “Charlie. Take it all off!” He was stunned. He said “Excuse me?”. I said “You heard me. Take all my hair off.” He tried to reason “How ‘all’, when you say all?” One inch, half, quarter?” I remember my father tell me, you are supposed to take all your hair off only in a temple. So I would technically not be committing blasphemy if let a wee bit remain.
So I said, “Okay, leave 1/4 inch behind”. He replied “okay you asked for it”. Then, he took his trimmer and raced through the center of my head “to give you a sample of how it would look”. I was a bit petrified. But reason got the better of me. I said to him, “That’s just what I wanted. Go right ahead. Only, make it look uniform”. So he said, “This is the last stop. There's no turning back after this”. I said, “Fine”. He persisted, “But you would need to convince a lot of people when you show them your ID card”. To which I replied, “Charlie. Look at me. You think a bald head is going to going to change anyone’s mind about me?” That did it. The act was done. I was looking at a new identity in the mirror-one that seemed at peace with itself.
Accepting the inevitable is one way to deal with one’s destiny. My grandfathers were bald, my dad is balding, and I know I will be too. I know I will have an answer now whenever anyone asks me “What happened?” I am going to say, “Got a new headstart in life”.
