Salon Salsa: The Final Cut

Once my professional life began I realised that few of my friends no longer visited the barber shop. They had started getting 'salon treatments'. Out of curiosity and a bit of peer pressure, I too visited one of the popular salons that had a rather French sounding name (not that I know French, just that I had never heard the name before. I doubt even the salon employees knew what it meant).

As I entered the salon, I was greeted by a receptionist, which made me think if I had entered a wrong place. Nope. The salon had a receptionist who asked if I had an appointment. I didn’t because no one told me I was making a sales call. And all I had to do in a barber shop was to wait for 10-15 minutes glancing through 5 year old issues of Filmfare or Cineblitz.

Anyway, the receptionist glanced through a diary to check if she could ‘accomodate’ me. I looked inside and there was no customer; just few employees in black and wearing an apron. The apron had pockets in which rested all of the barber's tools. Finally the receptionist smiled widely and motioned me to enter. The waiting employees immediately parted to guide me to a chair. One of the guys came up to me and asked “What would you like to do sir?”. I was disappointed. Because my local barber was more of a self starter. It didn’t matter what I wanted. He cut the hair as he pleased.

‘Just a normal hair cut’, I replied.

The stylist then proceeded to examine my hair. He grabbed a few strands with his fingers and made a face.

‘Sir did you wash your hair before you came?’

I hadn’t because I usually did that after a haircut. Apparently my hair was too greasy to cut and it would damage his scissors. So I had to get a hair wash which would cost extra. I nodded along as I didn’t want to come across as someone who rarely bathed. So I got my hair washed. And then the cutting began. For the first time I saw how hair could be cut in a sophisticated way. Heck he put clips all over my head. and my hair was not used to such pampering. Because at my barber place this is what usually happens.

Ok that is an exaggeration!

After he was done, he asked if I needed a head massage. I refused. He asked if I needed a shave. I refused. But he was quite adamant on giving a facial. Apparently my face was too dirty (and he said that in as many words) and in dire need of a facial. Out of curiosity I asked for the price. As soon as he quoted the figure I hurriedly got off the chair. Because I had not planned on selling a kidney for a facial. I walked towards the receptionist who handed me the bill. An astounding 650 rupees. That was worth a whole year of haircut at my barber shop. But she wasn’t done. She then tried to sell me a membership which would give me many benefits. I refused again, to which she gave me a 'saale gareeb' look and suggested that I make an appointment next time. The smile had vanished. And so did I.

So once the corona thing dies out, I will be back to the barber shop, happily waiting on the couch and glancing through 5 year old copies of Filmfare, and Femina too because my barber shop is now unisex. Till then I hope my hair growth slows down or something. Or hide the trimmer at least. My son has been looking for it and keeps looking at my hair with hatred. I get the feeling that he is planning something nasty.

The End!

Note: All images sourced from the internet

Salon Salsa: Part 2

So yes the Urban Company guy came and gave my head its sane look back. Nothing is more annoying than waking up in the morning and seeing your overgrown hair looking like this.

I guess that’s what being grown up is all about. You can no longer tolerate Ustad Zakir Hussain like hairdo on yourself. But it wasn’t always so. While growing up, I put my hair through a lot of trials and tribulations to look cool.

The first 18-19 years of my life I couldn’t do much because of my dad’s ‘my house my rules’ rule. Since he was the provider, he dictated how my hair looked; which is the case with almost all Indian families. 

If there was ever a template for an Indian hairstyle then this was it; find a partition and comb the hair on either side of it (like some sort of red sea parting but with hair). The hair on either side was always in an 80:20 ratio. And the partition was never to be crossed by any unruly hair. They were held in place by a spell called the Indian Hair Oil. Indian parents would apply a generous splash of oil (mostly home-made or parachute) and there it was. The look that gave rise to the term ‘champu’. But even hairs have rebels. There will always be a few strands at the upper end standing in defiance.

Likewise I too rebelled against my parents; and as always the rebellion was quashed by my dad. It was the 90s and a new hair style gathered rage among all guys. The 'Katora Cut' or 'Tapeli Cut'. It looked something like this. 

And like all things naive, I quickly believed that barbers would put a Katora on your head and fashion the cut. Hence the name. Well the barber didn’t do anything of that sort. If anything then he was overjoyed because he could now cut less hair for the same price.

I reached home hoping to live a normal life. But getting through the security check that was my dad was never easy. My father looked at me in silence. He was expressionless. He grabbed my head without affection and rotated it to get a better glimpse of the latest rage in Indian haircut industry. If his touch was any indication of how pissed he was, his eyebrows which converged downwards and formed a V confirmed it. But he didn’t say anything. He grabbed me by the arm and took me straight to the barber; no words were spoken between the 3 of us. The barber made me sit on the chair and proceeded to give me my regular cut. No way was my dad going to be robbed of money for a job half done.

But then came college. And with it came life in a hostel. It meant that I could experiment with all the cuts that the Indian haircut industry could possibly come up with. But this industry has one major flaw. It is trained to cut hair in very limited templates. It is similar to the hotel industry that caters to the middle class. The menu might say Continental and Italian. But the chef can only prepare ‘tandoori roti, butter paneer/veg kolhapuri (which I believe is a sham as all sabzis with veg as prefix are more or less the same), dal fry and jeera rice’.

I remember that I had come home for the weekend. I decided to get a haircut, and asked the barber to give me a crew cut because Lakshya had just released and Hrithik played an army guy, and girls loved Hrithik, and I for some reason believed that a similar haircut will also alter my face to resemble Hrithik’s. 

I remember that day clearly. I specifically asked that idiot if he knew how to give a crew cut. His confidence when he nodded in the positive could only mean that Hrithik came to him every month for his haircut. And the scissors snipped and snapped. The barber was lost in concentration. If he were to die the next instant, my head was to be his swan song. Given his seriousness, girls were going to line up to date me the moment I reached college. I paid him and walked home. 

God chooses the most embarrassing of ways to convey that you have messed up. When I reached home, one of mom’s friends was sitting on the couch. I greeted her. She responded as well. But she seemed to be intrigued by my presence. She didn’t smile but looked at me with concern. After I had freshened up and the lady had left, my mom came up to me and said,

“What the hell did you do to your hair?”

“It's the latest style”

“It's pathetic”

“You wouldn’t understand”

“Why do you always embarrass me in front of people. The lady asks me if you were sick or dying of some disease.”

That was a jolt. And as I looked in the mirror, I too started seeing what the lady meant. Instead of Hrithik, Tom Hanks from Philadelphia stared at me. 

The stupid cut received further validation when I reached the hostel on Monday. Thanks to some amazing roommates, I had to endure countless jokes and jibes till the hair grew back to normalcy. 

And I learnt a valuable lesson...Stick to the Template...Always Stick to the Template!

...to be contd

Note: All images sourced from google/internet

Boys to Men 5: Salon Salsa

If there was anything that the lockdown did (other than cause mayhem), then it was encourage people to pursue new (and at times life saving) hacks. So suddenly people were exploring new talents. Some were welcome while some should have remained incognito. 

Did you know that Microwave ovens could do more than just reheat food? Suddenly these machines were doing what they were actually meant for. Bread, cakes, cookies, they started making them all. 

Newfound painters started going beyond the traditional ‘house with the well by the hillside’ scenario and became adventurous in their imagination.

Poets lamented about 'how the mighty humans were humbled by a virus, and how man had become a prisoner in his own home'. 

For some sad souls their primary task became counting the number of lockdown days. Some of them seem to have lost track as they still put a hashtag in their posts which reads something like ‘#lockdowndiaries; #day127oflockdown’.

What also increased was the sale of yeast as well as google/ youtube searches on how to brew your own liquor. I for one have started seeing beetroot and pineapple in new light.

Those who lost their jobs due to the pandemic could now look at an alternate albeit dark career and fulfil the dream of becoming Vijay Mallya (when he was in India selling calendars).

Wives were the most overjoyed as husbands showed keenness in helping with the household chores. Incidentally, cases of domestic abuse also rose significantly.

My first task during the lockdown was to cut my son’s hair (coz screw hidden talent!). Since he is only 4 he couldn’t fathom the damage I had done with a scissor and trimmer. At the end of an arduous half hour (arduous for my son. For me it was Da Vinci at work) my son's head looked somewhat like this.

When he looked in the mirror, it took him some time to register that it was in fact him in the mirror. And if he could abuse he probably would have. Thankfully his school syllabus has just two letter words this year.

But what goes around comes around. It was my turn to get a haircut. As I looked around for volunteers, my wife’s enthusiasm and confidence caught me by surprise. She snatched the trimmer from my son’s hand who was looking at me menacingly. We made a makeshift apron from a newspaper (courtesy Javed Habib); and set up chair in the bathroom, because my son's episode had taught me that hair can be quite a bitch while cleaning up. The newspaper was from pre lockdown era. I call it the Good Times of India (I found it amusing when I first thought of this joke and just had to include it here).

The fully charged trimmer started buzzing. The absence of a proper sized mirror made it impossible for me to look at what was happening with my hair. But the occasional gasps of my wife told me that the situation was grave. After a couple of minutes my wife went unusually silent; the silence only broken by her soft apologies; and my groans as the scissor pulled at a bunch of hair hard. But I let her continue cause there was nothing else to do. My wife and I neither spoke nor looked at each other as we cleaned up the mess. 

That was two months ago. My hair has grown back. And today I have booked professional help from Urban Company.

...to be contd

Boys to Men –Part 4: The Many Uncomfortable Truths

Anyone who has travelled on trains will know that clean toilets are a privilege. My hostel lavatory was no less than that of a train’s.

My side of the hostel had 3 toilets... for 25 people. That number would rise exponentially during peak hours. Because if the toilets in your lobby were occupied, you could promptly check your luck in the other lobbies. You can imagine the massacre once everyone was done. Apparently, many people don’t really understand or follow toilet hygiene. They are ruthless, and often leave behind a trail of mindless destruction (quite literally). My hostel had many such monsters. And you could never tell by just looking at them. Such unassuming people, with deeds of a psychopath.

The only way you could have access to a somewhat cleaner toilet was if you woke up at the crack of dawn, before anyone else. So if you were used to going to the toilet at a specific time (you know for better performance), or needed that sip of tea to deliver the goods, you could very well forget all that. In a hostel, its mind over (faecal) matter.

Winters presented a new problem. Now the hostel authorities have a knack for assuming that guys in the hostel can survive hypothermia. Which probably is why our hostel didn’t have a water heating facility. Which made bathing a challenge. So we made the hostel authorities privy to our concern. Who like all responsible and proactive authorities calmly snubbed our request; their logic being that since we were young we should be treating the hardships as a lesson in life. So we avoided bathing altogether. Coz you know...rebels!

We did have a water cooler in our hostel though. It was the most basic of facilities and yet somehow we felt rich because of it. The fact that it was the only cooler for approx 200 guys didn’t reduce the richness in any way. Until one day the supply stopped. On enquiry we realised that during the last clean up, the worker had found a dead lizard in the tank. I don’t know what was more disgusting; that we didn’t have access to cleaner water, or that we had been consuming an exotic lizard cocktail. We realised something funny about the human body that day. As long as the mind isn’t aware of the contents of the food, the tummy would happily gobble and digest anything. But now that I was aware I needed to get out of this hostel which was plotting ways to kill its inmates through hypothermia and lizard laced water.

It was just the first month of my hostel life. And I was determined to get out of that place. Every other day, I would concoct horror stories to my dad, in the hopes that it would melt his heart and maybe put me in a private hostel which would have had much better facilities (read luxuries). So in high hopes I called my dad from a local pco. I narrated the lizard episode and also fake jaundiced a guy.

“Hmm...” he said. 

Any moment now, he would ask me to pack my bags and move to a private hostel. But his Hmm should have been my first clue. Any response that starts with a hmm...is never going to be in your favour.

“Don’t mess with your health. Buy those big cans of mineral water. So how are the classes going?” was all he said.

And you know at times you can hear background music in real life too. As I hung up, I realised a feeling of being abandoned. Being the rebel that I was, I meekly accepted the situation. 

Thankfully I had friends who were much better prepared to deal with the situation than I was.

To be contd...

Boys to Men –Part 3: The Many Uncomfortable Truths

Recently I stumbled upon a stand -up by Anubhav Bassi on hostel life where he narrates a day in the life of a guy living in a hostel. Hilarious as it was, it reminded me of my days in hostel as well. Anyone who has lived in hostel goes from phases of ‘pure disgust’ to ‘pure elation’.

The initial days at the hostel are nothing short of a nightmare. Having spent your early days in a comfortable and protected environment, shifting to a hostel can be a real shock. So it was for me. It was self service from the word go.

It was then that I realised that clothes do not magically wash themselves (not literally though. I knew moms did it, but they do it magically don’t they?).

I reached the hostel during the peak summer of June. Blessed with extra perspiration pores, my well ironed clothes quickly started smelling like a corpse. Not to be deterred, I took them all to the nearby laundry shop. Because that’s what rich people do right? When the clothes came back, my wallet was considerably lighter. So I did the next rich thing. I invested in a washing soap, and an annoying plastic scrub (the annoying bit comes second only to the ‘clawing on a blackboard’ sound). My roommate invested in a washing paddle (which doubled up as a cricket bat once we were done with the washing).

Pretty soon we realised that washing clothes required more patience than skill. And once the rains start, even skilful washing wont save you. Because those of you who have tried know that a half dry cloth smells like death.

So like every persevering/perspiring man, we too quickly gave up. We took refuge in talcum powder and deodorants. To all those people who are about to start hostel life, the following steps can be helpful on how to escape one week without washing.

Day 1: Wear clean shirt

Day 2: Wear it again if no considerable smell emanates (or if the person standing next to you isn’t staring at you in disgust. Or has fainted.)

Day 3: You would now be unable to bear the stench yourself. So lay the shirt out on the bed. And spread a liberal dose of talcum powder on it. Particularly around the armpit area. This should help you get through the day.

Day 4: Repeat step 3

Day 5 and 6: You must have now reached a point where even talc won’t work. In such a case, just wash the armpit and the neck area. And you are good to go.

Note: Unwashed socks are deadlier. So once you have worn them inside out as well, you must ensure to wash them once every three days. Same goes for the underwear. No one washes jeans anyway so no issues there. Jeans are genetically destined not to be washed. So that makes it a time saving garment. Invest in them. Or just borrow from fellow hostel mates. Because one thing that I noticed was that everyone in a hostel wears clothes that have a universal fit. So it doesn’t matter that the person from whom you borrow is fat or thin. If he has a wearable garment, it will fit.

Washing clothes is just one of the many problems that a guy faces in the hostel. But he surely overcomes them, one problem at a time.

To be contd...

Boys to Men--Part 2

Boys do not have a fixed definition of fun. But it has to be full of action. And I mean raging fires, exploding buildings, crashing planes type of action. So my kid’s idea of fun isn’t sitting quietly and playing with his building blocks. It is to make a big tower with those blocks, and then aiming his toy car at them to knock them down to the remotest corner of the sofa (which I will later have to sweep out myself).

One risky idea of fun happens in school (which am sure most of you have done at least once. most of guys at least, because girls are civil). And it involves impaling the one sitting in front of you with a compass. It all starts when a kid stands up from his seat for some reason. And the kid behind him produces a compass out of nowhere and places the pointed end of the compass on the seat, for no reason. He then patiently waits for the kid in front to sit on the pointy end. The sadism takes a turn for the worse when other boys nearby don’t prevent this from happening and in fact await the needle to pierce the buttocks of the poor lad.

As dangerous as it sounds, I have never heard of an incident where this prank took a turn for the worse. Its almost like a rite of passage. I’d really like to know about the origins of this prank. I mean which sick mind would look at a compass and think, “hey you know what, just for fun...let’s pierce some buttocks today”?

For me, one of the most annoying things in school used to be the MD (mass drill) period. My school used to start at 7.15 in the morning, and once a week all the students would march towards the school ground to spend the next hour and half dancing/exercising to the drill masters whistle (or a drum depending on how adventurous the instructor felt).

Everyone hated it. Including the drill master I believe. Back then and even now, I am unable to grasp at the utility of those physical movements. No one in my life has once come up to me and said “You remember the mass drills we did in the morning?  It changed my life.”

You also needed to show just the right amount of appreciation for the drills. You showed too much enthusiasm (or too less of it), and the instructor would make you lead the drills. Which meant that you had to do the exercises and the other kids would follow you. Now most of the kids just followed the kid in front. I mean no one really remembers the order of the exercise (or the exercise). You made a mistake and ‘smack’...out of nowhere the drill instructor appeared behind you and slap your buttocks into oblivion. He actually would appear out of nowhere. He would be at a far corner getting all cheery with my young science teacher, and the moment you messed up a movement he would magically appear right behind you to slap your behind (which is already sore with all the compass piercings).

The trick was to remain inconspicuous; just show the right amount of enthusiasm so that the DI would spare you. Morning drills were especially unpleasant in winters. In my school, only the higher secondary boys could wear pants. The rest of us had to wear shorts. And I am all for rules. But 8-9-10^th standards are when many embarrassing changes happen to our body; body hair being just one of the problems. While the torso is well protected in the chilly morning wind, the lower part is however quite unlucky. And its no fun to feel the wind creep up your leg. Not to mention morning wood. Imagine standing in front of everyone, students and teachers, in your shorts that often does little to hide your unwanted boner. You will quite literally be standing out.

At that age (and I guess even now) kids tend to get embarrassed easily. The other kids on their part will ensure that you stay embarrassed. They will never let you move on. Because the screw ups you do in school stay with you for life. Years later, when people meet on school groups on FB and Whatsapp, you will still be known as ‘that kid who screwed up’ in the group.

But that's the fun of school isn’t it? The fun, the ink pens (and the promotion to ball pens), the geometry sets, the mass drills, the crushes, the embarrassments, the failures, the conquests, the fistfights after school, the arm wrestling coz she is watching, the chalk projectiles, the one hand distance, the head downs, the finger on your lips, the standing out of class as punishment, the pride in carrying the books to the staff room, the tiffin cricket, the flames, the group photos towards the year end, the proposals, the occasional slaps, the few moments of glory, and many moments of insult, the jealousies, the contempt, the love, the hatred, the friendship days, the rakhi days, everything keeps adding a small layer to the personality that is the now you. In fact, I’d like to change my above statement. Remember those mass drills in school that we used to hate? They did change my life a bit!

Boys to Men- Part 1

So its been many days since I last ventured out of my home (I lost count after the lock down). So yes, the times are tense. The Corona pandemic has pushed us to fight for survival.

But this piece isn’t about Corona. We have had enough depression and fear for a lifetime. 

I grew up as a 90s kid, and for some weird reason still feel that 90s was 10 years ago. It was an exciting decade. We as a nation were just beginning to shed our inhibitions. Probably the most brazen moment of that decade was the song Choli ke Peeche from Khalnayak. It was 1993, and as it is with anything remotely raunchy, the people were scandalised. It was a different matter altogether that the song became their favourite in the sweet privacy of their homes.

Naturally, the song was very popular among us boys. From "tuney ‘wo' gaana dekha?" to humming ‘kukukuku...’ the song set our imaginations wild. As kids on the cusp of teenage, finally came a song which was asking all the right questions - What exactly lies behind the choli?

As it is with any educational institute’s toilet, my school too had its share of graffiti artists and vandals who would treat the toilet walls like their own personal canvas. From graphic sketches to cheeky one liners...the wall had space for everyone. And one of the walls finally had the answer to the question. It read: Choli ke peeche kya hai...choli ke peeche b*ll hai! ‘B*ll’ obviously being the metaphor for breasts for us at that tender yet furiously notorious age.

And some 25 years have passed between then and now...whenever Choli ke Peeche plays up, my mind immediately gives me the response. Choli ke Peeche b*ll hai!

Throughout the 90s there were many songs which made us go red in the face. not because we were scandalised. But because back then, watching TV was a joint endeavour. there was no concept of 'me time' where one family member could hog the TV alone. so whatever was dished out on the TV was meant to be watched at the viewer's discretion. So yes, I have watched the opening scene of Aaj Phir Tumpe Pyar Aaya Hai from Dayavaan and watched Govinda and Karishma Kapoor dance suggestively to Sarkailiyo Khatiya...with my parents. 

The tricky part lay with the person holding the remote - that of smoothly changing the channel. While dads could get away with it (coz mah house mah rulez), we had to be very subtle. Changing immediately would mean that we knew what the song meant, and that we were no longer the innocent ,cherubic apples of their eyes. Suddenly they would get their eureka moment on why we were spending more time in the bathroom.

Which brings me to the next Boys to Men phase...Porn!

But thats later.

(to be contd...)

*Honourable mention: 

Aanchal ke andar kya hai

Aanchal ke andar Choli

Choli ke andar kya hai

Batau...Batau?

Choli main....tabahi hai tabahi tabahi

Duhayi hai duhayi duhayi...

...from Khalnayika