I remember how as a kid I used to hate to get a hair cut. Schools then used to be extremely particular about hair length and since my hair grew at a prodigious rate I frequent the barber (yes we used to call them that, until they all enmass became hair dressers) quite often. My parents seemed to have a knack for noticing the length of my hair on weekends, which meant that my precious holiday time on Saturday mornings was spent in the barber shop across the road, waiting for my turn to get shorn. My friends would be out playing while I impatiently waited my turn in a barber shop. Life seemed unfair at that point in time!
In those days an army cut was mandatory which meant that the barber would machine the sides and the back of the head to make it buzz bald. Regulations in school allowed the patch on the top to be slightly longer. The actual cut would take all of 10 minutes at max, which included the extremely precise task of shaping the nape of the neck. The barber would always ask whether I wanted the line at the base of my neck, to be square, natural or U shaped, as if I would ever see it!! My frustration stemmed from the fact that, for those 10 minutes in the barber’s chair, I would waste an hour or more waiting while other customers preened themselves getting shaved, oiled, massaged and dyed. It seemed to me that getting a hair cut was the favorite pastime of a lot of people on Saturday mornings. I was a timid child and very often the barber, seeing me as a captive customer (who would leave no tip), would keep pushing my turn behind other more generous customers, which would result in extending my waiting time further. All this, while I would be subject to loud music blasting from the radio (TV’s had not yet come out).
At the end of the cut, the barber would whip out a round mirror to the back of my head, for me to review and approve the way my hair looked, as seen from the rear. I would always nod as if completely satisfied. I used to be as blind as a bat without my glasses, and my glasses at that point would be on the counter, with my hands secured inside the barber sheet to keep my clothes clean. And my ego or shame (I forget which), would never allow me to admit that I could not see what I had just approved. This habit of blindly approving haircuts, I carried on into adulthood, well after I had lenses and then got Lasik done - even if the moron with the scissors had created bald craters at the back of my head. My philosophy has always been that if I cannot see it, it does not affect me.
This repugnance for a trim I carried into adulthood, and I find nothing as confining and constricting as sitting in a chair while another person twirls sharp scissors and blades around my head and neck. Of course the only difference is that what used to take 10 minutes now takes the better part of an hour. Every barber now poses as a hair dresser, and hence cuts and styles each individual hair, while I sit there fuming for the ordeal to get over. They fuss and preen over my pelt, insisting on waxing and gelling it at the end of the cut, not realizing that their efforts are in vain. Within an hour of the cut I would have washed my hair along with the styling ingredients.
These thoughts struck me due to the fact that I went for a hair cut last weekend. Over the last few years my patience with these extended hair cuts has been wearing thin and a couple of years ago I reverted to the gung-ho barbers, who have you in and out of their chair in 5 minutes. You know the sorts – the ones who would not take exception to being called barbers! I now try to combine a hair-cut, whenever I have any other work in Al Fahidi Street. That particular weekend I walked over to my regular Pakistani barber to find that he was busy, with a couple of guys waiting ahead of me. I will never wait around for something as mundane as a hair cut, and if my regular barber is busy, I will just go somewhere else. So I decided to walk down further and landed in this small “Gents Saloon” near the Dubai creek. I could see a few guys waiting through the glass windows and I could also see one barber’s chair occupied, though no one was serving him. So I walked in to enquire if they were busy. As soon as I entered, it was obvious that I was not the sort of client that this establishment was used to. I was immediately waved to the occupied chair and the incumbent was unceremoniously ejected from it. Before I could protest the barber quickly donned his white coat and pushed me down. As he gesticulated and spoke to the others I realized that he was a Gujarati. He tied an apron around my neck and asked me what I would like. I responded in his language and the shock on his face was worth it.
Anyway I leaned back and closed my eyes for the haircut, and suddenly I was transported to the barber shops that I had frequented as a kid in Bombay. This guy had obviously cut his hair cutting teeth back home, because he made these very distinctive sounds with his scissors. I had almost forgotten that sound, since the “hair dressers” here use a different kind of scissor and cutting style. This guy made snipping sounds in the air with his scissors, almost as if he was cutting some imaginary hair. That is so representative of saloons back home where barbers would snip 6 to 7 times in the air for every one cut of real hair. As I sat there with my eyes closed I was transported back all those years and could almost visualize 8 to 10 barbers, all in ecstasy as they waved their hands and snapped their scissors in the air.
When he finished, he asked if I would like a head and neck massage with a hand held vibrating machine, as it was included in the price of the cut. I had experienced this once, a long time ago in Muscat, and never wanted to repeat the experience. This huge contraption (which looks like a generator) is strapped on to the back of the barber’s palm which, when switched on makes his hand vibrate. All the barber then has to do is place his hand on your head and move it around and the vibrations get passed on. That in effect has a massaging feel (apparently) for some people. In my case I had felt like a soft drill had been accidentally put on my head, and the sensation was akin to being lulled to sleep and violently woken-up, both at the same time. My eyes had closed of their own volition and I could not get them open again. Taking that as encouragement, the chap continued to stroke my head and neck, while I desperately tried to convey that I wanted him to stop. As I writhed around in the chair firmly in the guys grasp and powerless to do anything, he shoved a vibrating finger into my left ear. That was pure sensory overload, and as I felt my bowels loosening and my sphincter muscles relaxing I jerked away with superhuman effort. As the effect diminished I sucked in the drool hanging from my lips, mustered what dignity I could, and told him that that was enough. I had left without bothering to collect any change left over.
Coming back to the current, I still had some time to kill as I was waiting for my shoes to get polished and so I told him to go ahead. I was relieved to see that he had a different type of contraption which he used on my neck and shoulders, the net effect of which was to leave me sore and feeling worse than before he started. I left the saloon after giving the chap a good tip for taking me back on a nostalgic trip, and for bringing to mind the reason why I still carry a residue of distaste for hair-cuts. Of course I do realize that I should enjoy these experiences while they last, since my thinning pate will not warrant these forays very much into the future.
In those days an army cut was mandatory which meant that the barber would machine the sides and the back of the head to make it buzz bald. Regulations in school allowed the patch on the top to be slightly longer. The actual cut would take all of 10 minutes at max, which included the extremely precise task of shaping the nape of the neck. The barber would always ask whether I wanted the line at the base of my neck, to be square, natural or U shaped, as if I would ever see it!! My frustration stemmed from the fact that, for those 10 minutes in the barber’s chair, I would waste an hour or more waiting while other customers preened themselves getting shaved, oiled, massaged and dyed. It seemed to me that getting a hair cut was the favorite pastime of a lot of people on Saturday mornings. I was a timid child and very often the barber, seeing me as a captive customer (who would leave no tip), would keep pushing my turn behind other more generous customers, which would result in extending my waiting time further. All this, while I would be subject to loud music blasting from the radio (TV’s had not yet come out).
At the end of the cut, the barber would whip out a round mirror to the back of my head, for me to review and approve the way my hair looked, as seen from the rear. I would always nod as if completely satisfied. I used to be as blind as a bat without my glasses, and my glasses at that point would be on the counter, with my hands secured inside the barber sheet to keep my clothes clean. And my ego or shame (I forget which), would never allow me to admit that I could not see what I had just approved. This habit of blindly approving haircuts, I carried on into adulthood, well after I had lenses and then got Lasik done - even if the moron with the scissors had created bald craters at the back of my head. My philosophy has always been that if I cannot see it, it does not affect me.
This repugnance for a trim I carried into adulthood, and I find nothing as confining and constricting as sitting in a chair while another person twirls sharp scissors and blades around my head and neck. Of course the only difference is that what used to take 10 minutes now takes the better part of an hour. Every barber now poses as a hair dresser, and hence cuts and styles each individual hair, while I sit there fuming for the ordeal to get over. They fuss and preen over my pelt, insisting on waxing and gelling it at the end of the cut, not realizing that their efforts are in vain. Within an hour of the cut I would have washed my hair along with the styling ingredients.
These thoughts struck me due to the fact that I went for a hair cut last weekend. Over the last few years my patience with these extended hair cuts has been wearing thin and a couple of years ago I reverted to the gung-ho barbers, who have you in and out of their chair in 5 minutes. You know the sorts – the ones who would not take exception to being called barbers! I now try to combine a hair-cut, whenever I have any other work in Al Fahidi Street. That particular weekend I walked over to my regular Pakistani barber to find that he was busy, with a couple of guys waiting ahead of me. I will never wait around for something as mundane as a hair cut, and if my regular barber is busy, I will just go somewhere else. So I decided to walk down further and landed in this small “Gents Saloon” near the Dubai creek. I could see a few guys waiting through the glass windows and I could also see one barber’s chair occupied, though no one was serving him. So I walked in to enquire if they were busy. As soon as I entered, it was obvious that I was not the sort of client that this establishment was used to. I was immediately waved to the occupied chair and the incumbent was unceremoniously ejected from it. Before I could protest the barber quickly donned his white coat and pushed me down. As he gesticulated and spoke to the others I realized that he was a Gujarati. He tied an apron around my neck and asked me what I would like. I responded in his language and the shock on his face was worth it.
Anyway I leaned back and closed my eyes for the haircut, and suddenly I was transported to the barber shops that I had frequented as a kid in Bombay. This guy had obviously cut his hair cutting teeth back home, because he made these very distinctive sounds with his scissors. I had almost forgotten that sound, since the “hair dressers” here use a different kind of scissor and cutting style. This guy made snipping sounds in the air with his scissors, almost as if he was cutting some imaginary hair. That is so representative of saloons back home where barbers would snip 6 to 7 times in the air for every one cut of real hair. As I sat there with my eyes closed I was transported back all those years and could almost visualize 8 to 10 barbers, all in ecstasy as they waved their hands and snapped their scissors in the air.
When he finished, he asked if I would like a head and neck massage with a hand held vibrating machine, as it was included in the price of the cut. I had experienced this once, a long time ago in Muscat, and never wanted to repeat the experience. This huge contraption (which looks like a generator) is strapped on to the back of the barber’s palm which, when switched on makes his hand vibrate. All the barber then has to do is place his hand on your head and move it around and the vibrations get passed on. That in effect has a massaging feel (apparently) for some people. In my case I had felt like a soft drill had been accidentally put on my head, and the sensation was akin to being lulled to sleep and violently woken-up, both at the same time. My eyes had closed of their own volition and I could not get them open again. Taking that as encouragement, the chap continued to stroke my head and neck, while I desperately tried to convey that I wanted him to stop. As I writhed around in the chair firmly in the guys grasp and powerless to do anything, he shoved a vibrating finger into my left ear. That was pure sensory overload, and as I felt my bowels loosening and my sphincter muscles relaxing I jerked away with superhuman effort. As the effect diminished I sucked in the drool hanging from my lips, mustered what dignity I could, and told him that that was enough. I had left without bothering to collect any change left over.
Coming back to the current, I still had some time to kill as I was waiting for my shoes to get polished and so I told him to go ahead. I was relieved to see that he had a different type of contraption which he used on my neck and shoulders, the net effect of which was to leave me sore and feeling worse than before he started. I left the saloon after giving the chap a good tip for taking me back on a nostalgic trip, and for bringing to mind the reason why I still carry a residue of distaste for hair-cuts. Of course I do realize that I should enjoy these experiences while they last, since my thinning pate will not warrant these forays very much into the future.
