Facing the Heat

[This is something I wrote a long, long time back. I will be filling up the blog with such scribbles from the past, till I find the motivation to come up with something new.
See if you have the patience to make it through this meandering maze to the very end :)]

A haircut trip is always a harrowing one for me. I don't enjoy it. I try to postpone each trip for as long as possible, and get my hair cut as short as possible - to delay the next trip for as long as possible. I've also found that shorter hair keeps me in better shape, more away from allergies and colds (that I have an extra special propensity to catch). To cut a long story short - I like my hair short and I don't like to have it cut.

It doesn’t help that the worst place for colds is the barber's shop. Leaving my hair wet for a long time always worries me. Some barbarous barbers will insist on shampooing my hair before they let their precious equipment touch it. I then have to debate it out with them on why I be spared the shampoo. And they always insult my hair! Some would constantly mutter about the deplorable state of affairs of my hairs (it seems I have several different kinds, each worse than the rest put together); others will shove mountains of advice down my throat (or ears) - hair-oic saviors valiantly (and vociferously) striving to salvage a poor soul whose hair has almost been lost to the devil; yet others - these are the worst - will not comment or counsel, but observe a stern silence - a silence that chastises as no words or actions could.

Talk about having a bad hair day. I have one every day. But the worst days are those when I have to pay a visit to hairdresser. I must be honest, though – I make it difficult for myself – or rather, my hair makes it difficult for me – to have hairdressers address me normally. Because normal, my hair is not (unless you count the angle some strands form with my scalp). It is usual for my head to look like innumerable chaotic sea storms raging simultaneously across the globe. Or perhaps an upturned octopus with a zillion legs (a zillitopus?), with all permutations of arms tied into all manner of knots. The strange thing is, my hair is not all straight, or all curly, or even all wavy. I have all the kinds (sometimes within a single strand) – a very Swiss army knife of hair strand variety. But instead of forming a harmonious ensemble, they compose a concoction of the most cacophonous chords. This is another reason I could not afford to have long hair: the shorter it was, the less it could misbehave.

After much deliberation, I had come to the conclusion my next cut had to be today. This time was a new experience, even for me. I got a haircut all right; but also something I had not (literally and metaphorically) bargained for.

I started with a short prayer. I reached the parlor; it was fairly empty. One of the barbers accosted me. He pointed me to the chair - that dreaded seat of the most barberic torture - with the ominous calm of an experienced executioner. He then asked me what I wanted (my last wish). 'A hair cut please, and make it short please', I stuttered, fervently hoping that he would be too pleased with my two pleases to be too unpleasant to me. He sprayed his liquid (they claim it's water, but I've a strong suspicion its DDT) all over my hair, my head, my face.

And then he asked, 'chai lenge?' (will you have some tea?). At least, that's what I heard. 'No..no, thank you', I said. 'No, I want to have my tea. It'll take 5 minutes, I'll be back' said he. 'Oh..oh of course.. ok.. sure, please do', I managed to mumble, trying to disguise my embarrassment as graciousness. Meanwhile, my hair was wet. I began to worry about falling sick again. In an attempt to keep my mind away from such depressing deliberations, I started looking around for diversions. There was one other customer in the saloon. This guy sported some of the most spectacular spikes I'd ever seen. I had only seen such displays of hair-raising heroics in cartoons before. Yikes! What spikes! On them you could take virtual hikes! I imagined I could faintly discern the tips covered with snow...

My barber did come back in 5 minutes all right. Surprisingly, the cutting itself proceeded fairly smoothly. Thankful my ordeal was over, I was about to get up, when I realized he was staring at me. I looked in the mirror. Everything seemed fine. I couldn’t see what the matter was.

He examined my face closely, and declared: “Your face is so dry. You don't take care of your face. You must get a facial."

'Hmmm..' said I. I was wondering what to make of this. People insulting my hair to my face, I was used to; but I had not yet faced such an obvious attack on my face itself.

'Which one?' he went on.
'I beg your pardon?'

'Which one will you have? There's Caustic Cream of Kentucky, for 250; Fruity flavors of Frankenstein - 300; the Golden Gooseberry of Garangutania - 350; Essence of Effervescence of Eratopatathus - 400...' (I forgot the real names, but I'm sure I'm not too far off the mark with the above appellations).

I was still thinking of how to respond. Of course, a facial was out of the question. The task was now to inform him politely, but firmly, that I needed none of this nonsense, thank you very much. I opened my mouth to reply, trusting my natural eloquence to take care of the exact words.

'Mmmm.. how long will it take?' was the brilliant response my natural eloquence came up with. '15 mins. Which one?' By now, I realized I'd already said yes; I only had to choose how much to loose. '250 will be fine, please', said I (I had still not given up hope on the power of pleases to please).

He nodded. And continued his discourse. 'You must take care of your face. It's so dry. Look at this. And this. And this…' It was horrible!

He started with the exercise. Or should I say - exorcise. For I had no doubt he considered himself an exorcist, fighting valiantly to drive away the devil from my face.

My poor face.. They say the way to make holy water is to beat the hell out of it. It was evident he believed in the same philosophy for holy-fying faces.  He took the cream in his hands, and started applying it in careful measures to the surface of my face. All the while the discourse continued. I closed my eyes. And let what was happening happen. Nothing I could do after all. It was a pity I couldn’t close my ears.

10 mins he kept the Cream of Kentucky kentucking all over my face. Then he washed it off.

It was over! :)

I was about to say thank you so much, it was a such a pleasure having my face exorcised by you, may I please leave now, when he cut me off – 'No no. This won't do. This won't do at all. Your face is too far gone. The cream of Kentucky is not enough.'

It was not over :( …

'But I'm not about to give up. We'll have to call in the Fruity Flavors.'

'Hmmm..'

'It'll cost 50 more. But it'll drive away the devil for sure.'

'Hmmmmm... how much more time?' was all my exemplary eloquence could manage.. I dared not even ask if that was 250 + 50 or 250 + 300. And then, what if the Fruity flavors of Frankenstein were also no match for the devil? Would we have to call in Gooseberry and Eratopatathus well? I tried to calculate.. I only had 500 in my pocket.. if it were only incremental fee he would charge for each, then I could manage... but otherwise...

He had already started with the preliminaries in getting the Fruities ready. I panicked. Did I have enough? If this were a restaurant, I'd be washing dishes. What would it be here? I pictured myself washing the chai wale cups..  

Meanwhile, the Fruity Flavors had been brought out, and an elaborate procedure was being carried out in getting them ready. Four colorful boxes. Inside one big grand box. Which one would it be? He took out one. Turned it around in his hand, examined it, then kept it back. Then the next. This too was placed back. Out came the third. And back in it went. Then came the fourth box. Aha! This was it. He took some cream into his hands (just as he had taken, the destiny of my face). I closed my eyes again, and started my prayers.

There was grinding, grating, wiping, soaking... and then he was absent for some time. The fruits had apparently been left to ripen. I opened my eyes and saw what must surely have been the 2000 year old ghost of Cleopatra staring at me from the mirror. I closed my eyes again. This battle was not for me. Let Frankenstein fight them all!

He came back after a few hours (or that is what it seemed to me). Then there was some washing.. and - finally - it was over! :)

I opened my eyes again. Look at the difference! he said. I looked at the difference. It was currenlty 500 - 300, if I was correct in my calculations. In my face, I could discern no major difference. 'Hmmm...' I said. 'Wait till I've finished with you!' he went on. Then you will see the difference.

It was not over :(

I started panicking again. Not Goosberry and Eratopatathus! The difference will then be negative! Not the tea cups! God knows how many of those would make up for the creams.

But it turned out it was the next Fruity Flavor of Frankenstein. I realized he would apply all 4. Grinding, scrubbing, rubbing, soaking, washing.... again.

Again, he took out one box. Kept it back. Then another one. Then back. Then the third (this was the fourth the first time). Back this went as well. Then the last. And this was the next he used on me.

I realized it was a ritual. Before taking out each flavor, he had to examine all the others. An ancient code, no doubt laid out by Frankenstein himself, followed to this day by this clan, followers of Mr F.

Halfway through the third flavor, I felt something I had not felt before. Not at this level, at any rate. It took me a moment to realize it was... intense pain! On my nose! I opened my eyes. He was holding a screw driver to my nose! A huge, effing, screwdriver! Driving the devil away is one thing, having my face screwed up is also something I had resigned myself to accept as my face's fate - but a screw driver on my nose! He was taking stuff out, apparently. Dangerous stuff, devilish stuff. Shoveling it out.

It was extremely painful. He said, 'I know this will be extremely painful. ..But this is how the devil is driven out.' And then he showed me what he had shoveled out. See that! he said. And that! All this is the result of not taking care of your face. You must improve, he admonished. There was stuff all right. I had no idea what it was. And it had come from my face. The devil was coming out... in pieces.

The fourth round went rather smoothly after that horrible third one. It took a good 40 mins for it all to get over. And then he said, 'what about a head massage?' I could not say no. After all I had to do the dishes anyway. What was the point resisting? Besides, this was one thing I actually enjoyed in a barber's shop. Sure, said I. The massage over, I was finally given permission to walk out. I emerged from the saloon - the devil driven clear out of my face, Rs. 410 driven clear out of my pocket - to begin in life, a new phase, with a new face.

I had come out alive! And with a soft face! My face was actually soft to touch... but would it remain that way? I can't wash it now for fear of loosing the softness.

My experience reminded of Ogden Nash's poem - This is going to hurt just a little bit - describing the poet's experience in the dentist's chair. In the end he reflects on the irony of this 'vicious circle': we visit the dentist so that we may have healthy teeth; when the primary reason we want healthy teeth is so we won't need to visit the dentist! The same applies to me and the barber. I want healthy teeth, short hair, a soft face. I don't want to visit the dentist. I don't want to visit the barber.