My Monthly Ordeal

I have been going through an ordeal every month. It is about going to the hair salon, once every 4 – 6 weeks to trim the wavy, obnoxious curls that have become quite vicious at the nape of my neck. I do not recall when I started developing this distaste – maybe when I was 35 ( I  had developed enough free space on my pate, where a game of chess could be played.)

The ordeal would typically start on a morning of a weekend, with me either driving up or walking down to a neighborhood salon. Getting in through the doors, initial anxiety would build up to see how many people are already waiting in the queue. If the bench is already full, you step out to get a little more of the weekend sunshine on your face. After a couple of customers exit, looking more human than they were 45 min back, you  venture back into the interiors. The waiting customers look up and into your eyes, so that you register them and silently commit that you will not jump the queue. One of the kinder ones adjusts himself so that you get a place to sit. Quickly, you make a mental calculation, using the rate problems you did in 8^th grade, on how much of your weekend time you are going to invest in this non value adding exercise. Now knowing that you have to spend a good 30 min or more, you glance at the reading material on the table in front of you. The Sunday newspaper is split between 3 people. You hope to at least get the supplementary page which has the weekly horoscope by Bejan Daruwalla, to ascertain whether the wait is going to be more than your estimate of 30 min. But no luck. So you pick up the ubiquitous Filmfare magazine which is at least 3 months old and you wonder how Rekha still looks so beautiful, in spite of the pages being so frayed, with the hundreds that have read the magazine over the last couple of months. 

Rekha’s eternal beauty and the filmdom’s gossip don’t hold my attention beyond a few minutes. My gaze goes up and makes an assessment of the 4 prisoners, in front of me, bound with their plastic aprons. Prisoners – because they are at the mercy of the hair dresser, with their heads at various angles. Based on the progress made on each of the prisoners, I again make an estimate of how long will it take before my turn comes.

And it is at that moment that my real ordeal begins. 

It is not the waiting that makes it difficult. Realization dawns on me that all these guys spend at an average of 26 minutes on the chair. While analysis of my past data confirms that the hair dressers have spent a maximum of 7 minutes while giving my haircut. My idle mind brings up a question – why is the Law of Proportions not applied here? One pays for vegetables and fruits proportionately to the weight of the goods purchased. So should not the hair dresser charge you based on the time he spends on you? Why should I pay 100 bucks for a simple trim, while he charges the same for all those 4 guys, who have mass of hair like our ancestors had eons back? It is this inequality which created my revulsion of this monthly exercise. Considering the fact that the low hair count, as such,  creates a complex, being unfairly charged for it only makes it worse. 

And that’s why my monthly trips to the hair dresser had became an ordeal.

Till ....

... I went to the hair dresser at Alexandria on a Saturday morning. The time had come to get rid of my unruly curls. Being in a new place, I went to one, where my predecessor used to frequent, called Hakims (I have now realized that many Arabic words are common to Hindi). The first shock that I had was that there was no queue and no film magazines to read. I was accosted with a warm “Sabah Kheir” (Good Morning) and led to one of the 2 vacant chairs in a spacious hall. His English was good and I was happy that he clearly understood that I needed a “medium” trim (I have had bad experiences in the past where I have had a military cut due to "mis-communication"). After getting me comfortably ensconced in the chair, he has a little boy bring me some special “chai”. It  tastes really good – but I wonder whether I will be able to finish the tea in 7 minutes. My hairdresser seems to have all the time in the world and goes on with  his assignment with complete dedication and care. I see the difference – earlier, I used to be one in a pending queue, to be done away fast; now I am with a hair dresser who is doing it for the love of his work. I have finished my tea, but he is still absorbed, ensuring every aspect is perfect!

After some time, he announces he is done and unties my apron. My first reaction is to look at my watch – gosh, it has taken 32 minutes! For once in my life, I get a feeling of exultation at the hair dresser – he has cared for me as much as much as he would do for a person with a thick, greasy mane. I am ecstatic and when I look at the mirror, I feel that it is the best haircut I have ever had (though in reality, it is no different, when there is nothing much to cut!). I feel on top of the world, and after giving a handsome tip, walk out with a demeanor of utter joy and bliss on my face.

I have had a revelation – find a gardener who would passionately take care of your little rose garden in a vast non - arable land ... ‘tis much better ... than to have a farmer who tends to the large paddy fields with monotony, because he knows not what love of work means.

The last nine months, I have been eagerly waiting for 4 weeks to complete and wishing that the obnoxious curls grow faster – so that I need to visit Hakims again and luxuriate in the experience that I had missed in the past years. 

It is no longer a ‘monthly ordeal’

The only flip side is that my wife has begun suspecting whether I am seeing someone!! My obsession with the timeliness and that I look forward to my monthly tryst at Hakims has her really worried. And that I spend a few seconds every day in front of the mirror, running a comb through my hair (that had ceased for the last 10 years), confirms her suspicions.

But I guess, it is the tribe of happy bald men, like me, who will empathize, how good it feels to get a fair treatment at the hairdresser, notwithstanding their suspicious wives.