The Hair Stylist

The Hair Stylist

         Prodded repeatedly by my wife to get a haircut, despite feeling lethargic, I pulled myself together and headed to a salon. The barber shop I go to is a small two seater with only basic amenities.

         As I stepped into the salon, I noticed that my usual barber is not around. A lean, gaunt, tall & elder man is applying his scissors on a customer. I peered across his face for my usual barber’s resemblances, but couldn't establish a relationship. Probably he was hired newly, I said to myself.

         The elder barber glanced at me across the corner of his eye, quickly retracted his eyes back to customer’s hair, mumbled something and beckoned me to sit in a gesture which seemed to be an unfriendly one. I tried to decipher his gesture as I waited.

‘Side locks seem to be unequal’, customer complained.

The elder barber apathetically discarded and began to manner that he is done with hair cut.

The customer hesitated a bit and floated his concern again.

‘I know what I did and I am good at my job. If one knows how to shape locks or mustache symmetrically, he would be his own barber. Can't he? Why would he ever show up in a barber shop?’ the elder barber scorned with a burst of laughter.

         The customer seemed to be pissed off. He was about to utter something, but relented for he immediately seemed to have understood its pointlessness. He offered a note from his back pocket glaring disapprovingly at his face. But the barber returned his glare and the change with no less vigor.

         Barber dusted off the chair without taking his eyes off the resented customer. He switched his eyes to me and continued the glare.Having already feeling uneasy with the events, I averted my eyes off him and occupied the chair quietly. “Haircut”, I said and leaned onto the rear of the chair.

‘Men were men then. This generation men are a comic’ he sighed and continued ‘your fathers bestowed this responsibility of haircut on us and never suggested anything while we did it. You guys..” he sighed sarcastically as he was helpless about something.

‘Of course, I know that all are not alike. You seemed to be a nice chap and so I would give you my favorite style, a military cut’, he concluded.

         My heart skipped a beat. My head is bulge and asymmetric to the rest of the body by genesis. I learned to meticulously conceal this inequity by sizing my hair length accordingly. Military cut on my hair unveils my funnily abnormal physique to the world. In fact, since for ever, the only input I give to my barbers is just not to cut my hair short.

‘No, I would like lengthy hair. Don’t make it short’ I replied quickly, camouflaging my uneasiness with a wooden smile.
The barber’s face began to con-volute at this reply, turned to the other side and flapped the shoulder cloth. I observed that my face turned pale instantly in the mirror to this impoliteness.

         He didn't heed to me any further and dusted off scissors and comb. Though an uneasy silence prevailed, I was at least comforted by the fact that I dared to communicate what i wanted. I veered back on to the chair and closed my eyes to relax while waiting for this to be over. After all, I don’t care for any hair style, for my stubborn curly hair ultimately will look the same what so ever.

         I broke off from reverie with an abrupt pull of hair. Puzzled by the act, I tried to give a disapproving look to him. After trying for a moment to seize his eyes which hid behind my head, as my hair was gripped tightly to hardly turn in any direction, my disapproval helplessly dissolved back into me.

         He grabbed the cleaned scissor and unleashed it on my hair. His mouth slightly protruding out represented his focus and half closed eyes with his brows closed in depicted his confidence. He looked as if nothing practical could deter his conviction.

         In no time, I realized that a sabotage is being unfolded on my hair. I felt cold and blood gushed into my face with resentment. A lump in the throat impeded a shrill of anger. I pulled my head off his scissor and bent forward close to the mirror. Hair cut to the root resembled remnants of a devastation.

‘What the hell was done?’,I blurted.

‘You hair is nearing military sort of cut`, he laughed prudently.

‘But...What did I te..’

‘It doesn't matter. It is my responsibility to assure that you depart the salon with a dignified hair style. I do what is right. After all, these days guys just don’t realize what suits them’.

         My anger peaked and I started to vacillate to and fro by holding the arm rests of the chair tightly.

‘I know what looks good for this head. Now, do, what I asked you to do’, I roared.

         He gave a silly look at me and tapped his comb against the scissor clearing the hair off. ‘OK, Its up to you to leave if you dislike my style of working`.

         I fisted on the arm rest violently. Soon a feeling of helplessness overwhelmed me. I wanted to break into tears shamelessly. How could I leave salon with half cut hour?I looked at his cold eyes. A smile broke wide on his face depicting a victory of righteousness. I gave up and fell back on the chair.

         He again snapped comb against his scissors signaling his invincibility. I looked like a clown to myself in the mirror. I couldn't bear to mirror myself,so I closed my eyes .. and he continued…

         At the end, I paid him and left without even waiting for the change. I didn't dare to look into his cold eyes. While I walked home, like a tortoise, I tried in vain to pull my comically haired head into my body. When I neared my house, I almost ran into house and closed the door behind with a big thud.

‘