Ardor for Barber

Ardor for Barber 

 I am one of those persons who have been devoid of any hobby or passion. I have had a boyhood crush on cricket and postage stamps. I developed a weak passion for wine drinking much later in my life but soon gave it away for the fervor of the whiskey. Craving for the coffee came in almost when I entered the 60th year. A bias for the city of Bombay and affinity to its ocean also happened in the last decade. However, an unwavering passion that remains with me since youth is my ardor for the barber, my grit for grooming, and swish for a salon. I never tolerated unruly hair on my head in my impeccably orderly life. 

I visit barbershop as regularly as the faithful go to the church. Like a king having half a dozen concubines, I maintain the number of salons across Mumbai city, and like a king, visit them often so as to not displease anyone. Waiting at these salons for my turn animates me gives me as if I am floating between two different worlds, a real and a fantasy one. 

I often let another customer take my turn while I listen to chattering barbers, browsing last month's issue of Stardust or a week old Mid-Day. Over a period of time, I have concluded that there is no bad day that can’t be overcome by listening to a barbershop gossip. This is just truth, plain and simple. 

 I am a private person by nature and do not converse easily. However, I like barbers who do so and listen to their drivels intently. Barbershop conversations are irrefutable proof that heads exist for the sake of haircuts. I like salons that clean, efficient, opulent, and glitzy. 

I splurge on my haircut; actually the only thing I splurge on and happily pay large tips. All my barbers know exactly what needs to be done as much as my driver knows which salons to take me when. 

 I have this fancy of visiting salons in whichever town I am passing by. This has often caused me grief. Once at late night near Mathura railway station, a barber refused to complete shaving my beard due to the power failure. I had to travel all the way to Gwalior wrapping a large towel around my face, looking like a dacoit. 

 I rank salons as others rank restaurants. One of my old favorites is Air-Cool, a gentleman's haircutting saloon that sits next to grand, old Churchgate station. Air-Cool soothes my frayed nerves as soon as I enter. Softly playing piped music of old Hindi film songs lifts my spirit. There is always a heady aroma of after-shave, anti-septic lotions, and hair creams. I am enveloped with constant hissing noise of the opening of crisp, starched sheets of cloths that are wrapped around me. Barbers wear starched whites, and all of them know my eclectic choices and me. A bottle of water is given to me upon my entry and a 'cutting chai' ordered without asking. 

 The least glamorous salon that I visit stands at the corner of our street. And I do this only to appease the ever-urging salon owner who greets me every time I pass his salon to go to my coffee shop. After all these years, my belief is strengthened that people say in the barbershop that they won't even say in their own living room because it's just one of those places where nobody's going to judge you too much about your dumb opinion. 

 As to me, I just keep quiet and mind my hair.