The last male bastion

Wonder why the barber shop is the last male bastion? It's not even under threat. They can take over our taverns, much to Sri Ram Sene's distaste. They can take over our clubs, no matter how much the fuddy duddy boxwalas resist. But hey... the barber shop around the corner is so totally ours. They wouldn't even want it, even if we let them have it.
Here's why.
What does a woman do at her hairstylist? Or parlour?
1) See who else is coming there.
2) Check out what they're wearing.
3) Check out their hairstyles.
4) Bitch about their hairstyles.
5) Find out how much it cost them.
6) Bitch about how much people pay to look uglier.
7) Ask hairstylist if they can do someting similar for you.
8) Ask reception for the busiest time of the day.
9) Fight for an appointment at that time.
10) Get the husband / boyfriend to change his whole day to suit the plan.

What do men do?
1) Walk in.
2) Sit down. "Chota karo". Snip, snip.
3) Done. Pay, walk out.

Of course, then there are those men who can beat our good ol' womenfolk in their own game. But that's for another day, another post.

Now you know why we never see barber shops for women?

Do you remember your first haircut?

If you are an Indian, you would probably have pictures of your "mundan" ceremony. A bawling, kicking little toddler on Papa's (or in a joint family anybody from Grandpa on either side to a distant cousin who happened to be around) lap. That's probably how you would have started your relationship with your barber (aah yes - hairstylist, for women).

But do you remember your actual, voluntary, haircut?

I've just got some images stored away in my biological ROM. The first haircut I remember was in the courtyard in our Trivandrum home. Grandpa was sick, so the friendly neighbourhood barber came around with his scissors, comb and other paraphernelia.
Probably Gramps wasn't in such a good mood - I don't remember him smiling at all. Mum took me to him and we waited till the barber was done with Grandpa. That's all I remember. I recall protesting and being ignored too.

The next earliest memory I have was of the barber shop in Dammam, Saudi Arabia. Dad worked in Saudi Arabia for nine years (which explains why I was such a brat at home in India - there was no "authority figure" in my childhood!). We spent a couple of vacations with him as kids. Two of Dad's sisters shared the same house in Dammam, and we cousins would walk around the corner to the Pakistani-run neighbourhood barber shop.

No comb-scissor finesse for these tall, burly Punjabi barbers. Just a quick, five-minute shear that left you feeling like something out of a New Zealand farm.

I'm serious: this blog is about a man and his barber.

Ever since the Hakim Aalim franchise opened in our neighbourhood, the wife has been nagging me to do something to the mop on my head. It's directionless, she says, like my career. You need a specialist to make it look more civilized, so you can pass off as a half-decent guy in the Malls we go to.

Okay. So I swagger in with my best "couldn't care less" look. Those who know me well know that I can do that very well. Those who are Hakim Aalim's regular customers know that you have to fix a prior appointment, and be ready to shell out INR 350 + taxes. That's around seven dollars, if you are an IPL freak. Cheap for a Lalit Modi, but a little expensive for someone who hasn't paid more than INR 75 (taxes? ha ha) for a haircut.

And I just walk in to my friendly neighbourhood "Saloon". Around 30 minutes, and forty bucks later, I walk out with my mop intact, but trim.

Okay, so that's interesting? Why am I writing this?

I know why I started this blog: I promised myself I'd write a few lines to myself every day. But what's your excuse? Why are you reading this?