<p class="bodytext">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.</p>.<p class="bodytext">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.</p>.<p class="bodytext">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.</p>.<p class="bodytext">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.</p>.<p class="bodytext">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”.</p>.<p class="bodytext">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.</p>.<p class="bodytext">PS: I still go to the same salon. I now carry a small razor -- purely for self-defence in case of an emergency.</p>
<p class="bodytext">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.</p>.<p class="bodytext">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.</p>.<p class="bodytext">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.</p>.<p class="bodytext">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.</p>.<p class="bodytext">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”.</p>.<p class="bodytext">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.</p>.<p class="bodytext">PS: I still go to the same salon. I now carry a small razor -- purely for self-defence in case of an emergency.</p>
