Unwrapping the tools of the trade. | Photo Credit: Getty Images/iStockphoto
It was a cool Sunday early morning. All of a sudden, my wife said, “Don’t you want to go for a haircut?” True, I had not visited the barber for over two months. Like any service, haircut has become costly and I was postponing the visit to the salon to delay the expense. The salon was bit far away, not at a walking distance for a senior citizen, and I had to take an autorickshaw, adding to the cost.
When I reached, as expected, the salon was crowded. The hairdressers were happily busy, attending to special requests from youngsters for beard trimming, fancy haircuts and facials, middle-aged men waiting to get hair and moustache coloured, and seniors like me waiting for a normal haircut. The salon was air-conditioned, with plush chairs and television was showing cricket. The walls were lined with empty boxes and cans of beauty products and a long list of services was prominently displayed — haircut, haircut with shave, beard trimming, hair dye, facial massage and so onWhile I was waiting for my turn, the mind wandered to my childhood days when haircuts were a simple affair.
We were a joint family with several boys and girls, living in my grandfather’s house in Thrissur. The house had a large garden abundant with flowering and fruit-bearing trees. My grandfather was particular that boys should get regular haircuts and the first Sunday of every month would ask Neelakandan, the town barber, to come home. A tall, dark person with a gentle smile, Neelakandan would set up his workshop under the big mango tree at the entrance of the house. He carried a cloth pouch that he would unwrap and neatly display tools of the trade — a worn-out comb, scissors and a sharp blade. One by one, we boys will silently walk and sit next to him, bending our head for the haircut. Being the youngest, I was so scared of this ritual, mostly because Neelakandan’s scissors often plucked the hair painfully instead of making a clean cut. To cheer me up, he would say, “Samikutty, don’t cry, I will give you a rooster. It has colourful tail feathers and a red flower on the head.” Neelakandan would continue building the story keeping me amused and soon finish the haircut. After his work, he will walk to the rear of the house, where my grandmother would give him food and some money. As he walked out of the house, I would run behind him to remind to bring the rooster next time. This continued for the few years I got the haircut but never a rooster.
“Sirjee, please come.” The hairdresser called me and I took my seat. In no time, the haircut was done and I was on my way back home thinking about Neelakandan and the imaginary rooster.
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