A Brief History of Hair

I’m eating macadamia nut Cadbury chocolate. Someone is trying to learn the F chord. A few others are playing Uno and another is making tea. I think I’m getting green tea, but I can’t be sure. It’s Sunday night, I’m feeling relaxed after my day off and I eagerly await the arrival of the majority of those coming on Action for Life. They’ll be here at 4am this morning. Excellent.

As for this entry, it has nothing to do with that. It’s about haircuts.

My hair, at least what’s left of it, has taken on a number of styles in the years. I probably topped out in second grade when moms put me up to a so-called “spike”. It put me about ten years ahead of the same look that became popular in New Jersey when I was graduating high school (and which made you distinctly and easily recognizable as tri-state). The cut, combined with missing my two front teeth, made me a hot target for the females in Ms. Tretter’s Parkway Manor Elementary class. That all changed when I actually moved to New Jersey later that year and found that I was ten years ahead of the curve and the “spike” had lost its magical touch.

Regardless, hair grows and so did my adventures with it. Mostly parted to the side through junior high. Getting longer and stranger in high school, including a go at bleaching during my senior spring break with some guys on my baseball team (this included getting my ear pierced at a Wal-Mart…which is another story). In college I shaved my head for the first time. Actually, Andrew shaved my head. First taking it to a one blade before convincing me that I needed to go all the way. He bicked my head in Base Rich and I’m still sure that this marked the day that my hair began its official retreat for the rest of my life.

From there, it got long, it got short, I shaved it again and finally realized once and for all this spring that I will probably keep it very short for the rest of my life. (Unless I get cool like one of those old dudes who rocks a kind-of half-bald ponytail. It’s not that it’s a good look aesthetically, but it symbolizes a point that those men have reached – becoming completely detached from all need to impress anyone.)

When I got to India three years ago, I fought the inevitable haircut for a long time. There’s a lot of variables with a haircut in India. Will they understand what I want? Will they cut my ear with rusty scissors? Will they do anything…gulp…unexpected?

Most of these fears were allayed when I looked around. Almost every man in a city or town in India is immaculately kept from the neck up. Perfectly coifed hair, neatly trimmed beards and mustaches so nice that they make clean cut boys green with envy.
Once I crossed the first Indian Barber Shop threshold, I never looked back. The tidiness of the trim and the fact that they will give you a proper facial shave (with straight blade) make it an experience not to be missed on any trip to the sub-continent.

With relish, I hopped in the back of Sumo and took the 3-minute blast down to Panchgani town. Out the back door, I first bought a volleyball for a game later in the afternoon and then took it next door to the local barber shop.

The shop itself only measures about 6’ by 15’, three chairs for the chop and the regular six for the random dudes who always seem to find their way into a barber shop but don’t do anything there. The proprietor welcomed me in and offered me a seat. “How much for the haircut?” I asked. He returned with the most classic of all Indian male gestures. This being the regular head-waggle along with hand move that looks like he is gently back-slapping the air in front of him. In short, this means, “don’t worry about it, we’ll figure this all out later.” I fell for this move once before and thus the reason I asked for the cost out right. Still, I decided to roll the dice, seeing what he would give me and try to bargain post-cut.

I sat down and looked for a place to put the volleyball. It could have gone anywhere, but we oddly settled on the basket on the vanity – which he actually used for his combs and scissors and would need to access more frequently then any other part of the entire store. Surprised and slightly amazed, I focused on the work ahead hoping he would understand my single directive: “short”

He trimmed and I made small talk with one of the other patrons who wanted to take me on a tour of the neighboring town. I also took the chance to survey the room. A remarkable collection of old stuff including a radio from the 50’s, an beautiful set of drawing of popular Indian haircuts from the 30’s and a TV playing satellite movies. I sat back and enjoyed, this, one of my true guilty pleasures of living in India. I sighed out. It would be my last moment of peace.

With the haircut looking in hand, he asked me if I wanted a shave. Excitedly, I agreed. When one is born in the 80’s in America, the likelihood of having one’s face shaved by another person rates so low on the probability scale that it’s more like impossible than improbable. So when I have a chance to relive the greatness of days when men got a hot shave on the regular, I seize it like with vigor. It comes along with the same strange feeling I get to want to wear a cool three piece suit and hat and walk on the dirt-trodden street of turn of the century New York City. With a smirk of his clean-cut face, he broke out a fresh blade and went to work.

First, he smacked some shaving concentrate on my check. Wetting the brush, he began to build a lather, which eventually covered my three-day-old beard. Soon, the blade hit my face and began to scrape away the scruff. He worked it pretty fast, cleaning off my beard before doubling up for a second go-round. After, he pounded my face with some aftershave and then went in with some moisturizing lotion, massaging my face in the process. (Well, massage is a loose term that he would have used. I would use something like “getting my face smacked a bit, kneaded with lotion and then smacked a bit more.) By the end I’m knackered and he prepares his hands for round two with another bit of lotion. My face was feeling like it might actually begin to swell – as well as being smooth and shiny. This carried on for another two minutes before I finally had to ask him to stop. Surprised, he looked at me and said, “head massage?” Knowing my limits, I said, “no thanks”. As his head waggled in response (read: I am about to massage your head whether you like it or not) I leapt from my seat and reached for my roops to settle up.

I pulled out a 50.

“Is it fair price?” I asked.
He looked away from the bill.
My tour guide friend said, “You should pay what you feel is right.”
“I always pay 50 rupees for a haircut and shave. Isn’t it about right?” I said, doubting myself even though it was the truth.

The hair-man looked away again. The tour guide said nothing but gave me a gentle head-waggle (read, 50 is okay). Feeling strange, I looked at my cash situation discretely: A 50-note, two 100-notes and a 500. I didn’t want to go much higher than 50, but I saw my 100 as a weak play in a bargain for 70 rupees. With another thought I handed him the 50 and thanked him, telling him that I would be back. He looked disappointed. I took my volleyball and left.

I felt a bit bad, but I got redemptive backing from my storekeeper friend next door who said 50 was middle of the road for a cut. Still, I second-guessed. I will need to have my haircut in Panchgani again…and, it was a good haircut…hmmm…I put it out to you all. What’s my next move?