Barbershop

The barber’s eyes point in different directions, but there’s a twinkle in one of them and his seniority is reassuring. The doubt sets in when I look at the ‘Big Boss’ poster displaying choice haircuts from far away and long ago: think Bollywood meets Buck Rogers at the 1982 FA Cup Final. I point to the electric razor: ‘No want’, and the scissors: ‘Yes’. Since our shared vocabulary is by now nearly exhausted, I decide it’s best not to draw attention to the poster.

He sets about his task, his apprentice son watching intently as clump after clump of hair falls to the ground. It’s a serious business. There is lively Tamil music on the radio, and a squeaking fan, but no conversation. Things are going OK, although he keeps combing my hair back, after which I invariably find it hard to recognise - let alone like - the git I see before me in the barber’s mirror.

We’re done. I turn down a wet shave, since he was a bit too pokey with the scissors and I can feel a sneeze coming on, which could be fatal. But impulsively I agree to a head massage, out of curiosity and because I quite like having my head rubbed (even when it’s just a shampoo and towel job in a no-nonsense London hairdresser).

He pours something onto my head and rubs it in. It feels cold because it’s mostly alcohol. He starts kneading my head; I close my eyes and concentrate on keeping my scalp attached to my skull. I’m startled to be pounded – with equal vigour - on the back of the neck. My eyes (now open and checking escape routes) widen further when he gives a firm tug on each ear. Throughout all of this, he keeps a straight face and so does his sombre son. By now, I’m feeling dizzy yet awake. Gaining confidence, part of me regrets that this unusual experience is nearly over.

But it’s not. For his last trick, the barber cups my chin with one hand, holding the back of my head with the other. He rocks it left and right, until I relax, at which point he firmly yanks to the right, yielding a ratcheting noise from the vertebrae in my neck. It’s terrifying. Now a dilemma – do I let him finish, at risk of paralysis, or do I throw in the towel, at risk of leaving lopsided, unable to look left? I let him realign my spine, but this time it takes longer to relax.

Relieved to discover I can still stand, I smile, say thanks, give him 100 rupees (US$1) and walk out into the sunshine.