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Every time I step into a salon for a haircut or a shave—or both—I pause for a minute and wonder what would happen if all the barbers of the world decided to abdicate their responsibilities and move to more lucrative occupations. One can shave off a beard cleanly without leaving even a stubble, but trimming a scraggy mass of hair and shaping it into a magnificent Van Dyke or even a neat goatee really requires an expert pair of hands. If you insist on self-service, you could be left with a face that resembles a gargoyle. And about a self-administered haircut --the less said the better; those who have experimented with that hair-brained idea can vouch for it.
As for me, I have done neither. I always walk into the saloon down the street where the barbers are friendly, sociable sorts and tariffs do not leave a huge hole in the pocket. After all, not everyone is a Rajnikant or a Shahrukh Khan who can hire a celebrity hairstylist -- Aalim Hakim, it is rumoured, charges a cool Rs 1 lakh (plus GST, of course) for a haircut.
I generally strike up a conversation with the barber who works on my hair and beard -- it takes the pressure off his work, especially when a queue of patrons are waiting their turn on Sundays and holidays.
I have always been very careful about the topics I bring up, but the other day my barber, who usually steers clear of politics, posed a question about the political scenario in the state, referring directly to a recent development. I was in a fix; I had no idea which side of the fence he was on, but that was the least of my worries.
The query came when his razor was inches from my jugular vein-- within kissing distance, to be more precise-- and the situation felt delicate in the extreme. Any answer contradictory to what he was expecting could have had disastrous consequences. Fortunately, luck was on my side that day -- perhaps the Maker had not yet decided whether to recall me to his Kingdom of Heaven. I quickly drew his attention to a notice posted on the wall opposite where I was being, shall we say, tortured. The sign read, in no uncertain terms, “NO POLITICAL DISCUSSIONS PLEASE”.
The barber—the same man who had pasted that notice—sheepishly looked at me, let the question pass and went back to his work. That was a hair-raising experience in more ways than one. It seemed to sharpen his concentration: every strand stood upright as fear briefly gripped my soul and sweat poured down my back. In the end he did a fine job.
PS: I still go to the same salon. I now carry a small razor -- purely for self-defence in case of an emergency.