Barbershop…old school!

I like going to the barbers, in fact that is the only place apart from the airport that I can think of where I am unabashedly happy. The reason, these are the two places where I am not required to do anything…I can empty my mind and wander/ sit aimlessly for a little while before I re-enter the rat race. No expectations, no targets, just the tad helplessness of ‘being’ and leaving oneself in the hands of his maker (or his barber for that matter). Both places are then a spiritual experience, almost a pilgrimage one might say. This is the only true ‘time please’ left in real life.

Having being a patron at some of the most ‘exclusive’ salons in Europe and the Middle East, I can safely say there is no experience that quite bests the old school barbershop in India. Originally these places were owned by immigrants from Uttar Pradesh, that mantle eventually passed down to South Indians, especially those from the ‘tulu’ (better known as the shetty) community. The last few years have seen just about anyone opening these sacred places, but instead of diminishing the experience, these upstarts actually make the old hands more valuable to a connoisseur like me.

Me being a creature of habit have frequented only three such places in my life-time. The first one was a 5 seater extravaganza located near the Sane Guruji School. But this was in my child hood and the haunt was chosen for me my the assorted maids in my household with whom I’d be sent to get a haircut. I then shifted loyalties to a spin-off venture, one of the brothers (from UP, where else?) that ran the 5 seater place started a single seater shop near my house. I think I went there more because it was closer than anything else, till I eventually forgot the location of the place I used to go. This was not the best barbershop experience, my mane, which was quite flowing those days used to be inevitably crookedly cut and being a reserved kid I never asked for any different sort of a ‘cut’ or any additional services. In fact I never asked this guy anything, I don’t even know his name, and apart from the fact that he kept referring to his ‘muluk’, I don’t even know where exactly he was from.

The final place where I was eventually going to be ‘home’ is a place called ‘Deccan Hairdressers’ that is complete with the pictures of various hair cuts and film stars on its doors. This was also a more expensive place for me in my student days with a hair cut costs Rs25/- versus the Rs10/ at my old faithful. I was introduced to this place by a friend who used to get weird haircuts, but the importance of haircuts eventually waned for me with my hairline but the true potential of a old school barbershop was unveiled upon me by ‘Deccan’.

I love the smell of the place as soon as I enter. There is a ‘fresh’ smell of assorted lotions and potions and the shaving cream that I think is sold exclusively to old school barbers. There is the sound of surgical ‘snip-snip’ in the back ground that mixes in with a sound track that is forever stuck in the 60-70s time warp. Old film magazines, Star Dust from November 1999 et al, are strewn about as I take my seat in the waiting area. I almost only read these magazines here and am fascinated by the affairs of the filmstars. “Hum bewafa…hargiz na the…” plays in the background as I read about an actress…apt?

The place is filled with familiar faces, but in true bro-dition, this familiarity is acknowledged only by the slightest of nods of the head…over enthusiasm is not encouraged here. The owner is a ‘tulu’ (again, what else?) who probably came to Bombay wanting to be a film actor (judging by his hair stlye) but never quite made the ‘cut’ (pun intended). He clearly worked very hard to set this place up and now lords over at the ‘galla’ in shirts that can make you blind if you looked at them directly.

I take my seat as ‘In aakhon ki masti…’ plays. I am ultra stressed with work, personal life and Raul baba’s new antics, this is going to take some work. I go in for the shave, hair trimming, face massage and the head massage. My ‘guy’ looks sufficiently impressed. He asks if I want the foam for the shave…hell no! I am here for the experience, if I wanted the foam, I’d do it myself at home. I am down for the shaving cream which is lathered on a small katori that was probably as old as the shop. The mandatory spraying of water, the damp towel around my neck as I rest my head with my eyes closed. Ahh…this is the life I think to myself, the song in the background is oddly “Apni to Jaise taise…” Raul baba, my business that is bleeding me, politics, relatives, all begin to fade in the smooth lather that is being applied to my week long stubble that begins to get scraped off with an authentic ‘ustra’. The best part about this is that the lather is applied twice! Foam would have been faster, would have been applied just once and would have left fewer cuts, nothing pampers a man like two applications of shaving cream, and I was here to be pampered. After the final dabbing off the water and remainder of the cream, my face is rubbed all over with a small soap made of alum. Alum is the stuff that is used to purify water and has some antiseptic properties. The world has moved on to after shaves and even non burning after shaves (which I consider a bit like non-alcoholic beer…its cheating), but my own personal time machine allows me the pleasures of alum.

My hair cut takes short work, partly because my ample mane ain’t so ample no more and partly because I have just had a cut 3 weeks ago, and we move on to the face massage. My shop has succumbed to modern tradition and after about 2 minutes of facial scrubbing I am lathered in some sort of a green cream and subjected to a machine that blows steam in my face. This isn’t very relaxing, I think to myself as “Kuch to log kahenge…” bawls in the background. It does get more and more odd as the ‘face mask’ (I learn its called) tightens with the steam and I am thinking “what is this happening?!” Apparently the thing dries up on my face leaving it stretched, in between I manage to open an eye and lean close to the mirror and the full extent of my discomfort dawns on me…I look like an idiot with my face plastered in goo. Oh well…this is my pilgrimage and if I choose to spend it looking like an idiot, its my choice. Anway, finally the mask comes off, and the next five minutes are spent rubbing two more lotions into my skin. Both are extremely cold and from the way they feel I surmise than the one that made my face numb must be a white cream with no lustre and the other one that felt so cold that it burned must be a transparent cream with the consistency of hair gel. Of course, these are my estimations and may be completely different to reality, but who is to know as these mysterious ingredients are hastily put away before my eyes can be open and focussed.

I then move to the head massage, my favourite part of the routine. Oh my attendant really gets creative with this one. He never uses the bland massage machine like the others, this hand are enough, pounding and kneading at my head. I play “maalish, yeh tel maalish in my head” as the 1920s radio in the shop is not obliging with a song like “jab bhi koi kangana bole…” I truly surrender to the experience here with the guy twisting my neck to crack it, bending my arms and shoulders and fingers to stretch and ‘crack’ the joints. I do wonder if this is risky as my neck is perched helplessly over his hand in an awkward pose, but too late…CRACCKKK! I finally draw the line when he asks if I would like my spine ‘dislocated’ (am sure that not what he means)…In God I trust…nobody else dislocates my spine. I consciously choose the normal parachute coconut oil for this exercise despite my barber offering a wide variety of medicinal oils, cool oils, hot oils etc…that would just ruin the experience.

Anyway, the gent asks me “Bas?” at one point, and I say Yes…too much of a good thing is also bad. I get off the chair in a daze, as the song “Saara zamana, Haseeno ka diwana…” plays in the background. I struggle to keep disturbing images of Amitabh lit up like a Christmas tree from my mind as I make my payment and drop the customary ‘tip’ in my attendant’s front pocket. I wonder what makes this simple experience so noteworthy, or is its simplicity what makes it note-worthy. In a world that needs to make movies that stretch credulity to entertain and politicians that stretch credulity as a matter of course, where I see people blowing up enormous amounts of money to buy cars or evenings in clubs to feel ‘complete’ to feel happy, it is indeed satisfying to having something so simple, so inexpensive amongst us that is so truly relaxing. That’s about the last thought I have as I open the stubborn door, step out in the blinding sun and am hit with the sound of a needlessly loud horn.