Krishna’s Summer Cut Chronicles
Taking my 10-year-old son, Krishna, for his routine summer haircut has become an event in itself – a ritual steeped in tradition, much like a festival, except instead of sweets and celebrations, we leave with a freshly cropped head and a lingering scent of talcum powder.
The moment we step into the barber shop, it’s like entering a lively amphitheatre of sights, sounds, and smells. The waiting bench – our designated throne of patience – is already occupied by men flipping through dog-eared magazines, scanning newspaper headlines, or simply bobbing their heads to the nostalgic film songs blaring from an ancient radio. The customers – some seasoned gossipers, some reluctant visitors dragged in by their parents – animatedly discuss politics, unravel movie plots, and analyse the latest antics of cricket stars and local leaders.
The walls, oh, the walls! A shrine to cinema, they are covered with larger-than-life posters of actors, their thickly lined eyes glaring down at us like silent judges of our hairstyle choices. Krishna and I often pass the time by matching the actor’s haircuts to the poor, unsuspecting customers in the chairs.
The barber’s chair, a magnificent wooden relic, is cushioned and comes with a sliding headrest that the barber adjusts with a knowing flick of his wrist. Since Krishna is still a bit short for the chair, a sturdy wooden plank is placed across the armrests, instantly transforming the seat into a precarious-looking throne. Krishna eyes it with suspicion, as if expecting it to collapse under him at any moment.
Then comes the arsenal of tools – oh, how they’ve changed over time! Gone are the hefty brass clippers that required the strength of a bodybuilder. In their place are sleek, battery-operated trimmers, complete with interchangeable guards for precision styling. The legendary leather strop, once used to sharpen straight razors, is now a relic of the past. Instead, barbers use disposable razor blades, snapped in half and fitted into slim handles – far removed from the days when used razor blades doubled as makeshift pencil sharpeners in our homes.
And then, the pièce de résistance – the water sprinkler! Once a long-necked, metal-ringed masterpiece that required careful pumping, it has now been reduced to an efficient but uninspiring plastic spray bottle. It gets the job done, but where’s the drama? The old one had character, unpredictability – a mischievous mind of its own, sputtering out surprise sprays at unsuspecting customers.
One thing that remains unchanged is the mirror game. In the past, massive mirrors adorned the back wall, creating an illusion of endless space and ensuring that every customer had a panoramic view of their transformation. Now, barbers rely on a handheld, folding mirror, revealing the freshly clipped back of the head with a magician’s flourish. Krishna, without fail, reacts with wide-eyed amazement every time, as if seeing the back of his own head for the very first time.
With a final flick of the barber’s wrist, the trimmer hums to a stop. A firm pat on Krishna’s shoulder signals the grand finale. The barber whisks away the cape with a flourish, sending stray hairs flying like celebratory confetti. Krishna hops off his wooden perch, rubs his newly shorn head, and throws me a look that silently asks, Do I still look like myself Amma?
And just like that, the Great Summer Shear is complete – shorter hair, a lighter head, and yet another memory added to the ever-growing collection of Krishna’s barber shop adventures.
Priyanka Soman
cspriyankaa@gmail.com