Free Haircut

Within a week of moving to Scottsdale, scores of 'Welcome' letters flooded our mailbox, addressed individually. Hats off to the marketing guys; the ink on the registration paper is hardly dry, and complete data is in their hands.

A leading business magazine, specializing in success stories, offered our son 70% off on subscription, to rekindle his aspirations to strike it rich. Daughter-in-law received an irresistible offer from an upscale cosmetic company. The 'ultimate' kitchen aid manufacturers tempted my wife with their 30-piece set for $450 (normal: 600) to reinforce her thinking that it was time she discarded the dowry lot. The elder grandson got special rates on electronics gadgets, and a franchisee invited the five-year old younger one for a free ice cream. AND ME? A free haircut from the shop that otherwise charges $33/-. And I availed.

As the Lithuanian lady sized up my head for a major cosmetology, my mind strayed into adolescence when I paid just four annas per haircut - four haircuts per rupee. Or 220 haircuts for a dollar. Kalimuthu and his younger brother Murugan, the accredited hairdressers to the village, wielded their straight razor and scissors with reckless abandon under a thatched roof at the far end of their house. No high chairs; just a wooden plank on the floor.

Pre-dawn visitors risked their heads to the duo's artwork under a dim lantern light. Side-burns of differing lengths and uneven patches often emerged from such guesswork sessions. When it rained, one got a shower at no extra cost, dripping through the thatched roof. Occasionally a snake or scorpion crept in to exert their right to co-exist.

As specialists in Kudumi (tufts) and shaving, the duo catered basically to elders. To us the younger ones, they offered three flat fares: Crop, Motta Crop (crew-cut), or Mottai (tonsure). Any plea for a Sivaji, MGR, or Prem Nazir cut fell into their deaf ears.

In the bazar, a mile away, saloons were aplenty, all fitted with swivel chairs, king-size mirrors that reflect no wavy faces, radio, fan, tube-light, and magazines. But they charged ten annas. No parent obliged, except for the only-son Balu's father. Thus, after a haircut when Balu reached the pond for a bath, we flocked around and subjected him to an intense inspection as he unfolded his experience. “You look up at the ceiling, the hairdresser switches on the fan; pass a side glance at the radio, he would turn it on; look back at the table, he would hand you a magazine.”

Friction surfaced between the brothers because of their wives. Partition of the premises seemed the sole solution. They approached my grandfather, an advocate, to mediate. With both arguing at the top of the voice and Thatha reminding them, "order, order," it was practically a court in session at our backyard. After week-long deliberations, he settled the issue amicably. To express gratitude Murugan rushed home and plucked two king-size ready-to-eat jackfruits from the portion of the backyard that had since become his in the partition just concluded. Kalimuthu followed suit with a basketful of juicy mangoes. Thatha politely declined. “Both of you are like part of the village community, and I won’t accept anything.”

Unable to bear our deflated face at Thatha’s stance, Patti jumped in. “Yes, that is right. But, at the same time it doesn’t look nice to displease you when you both feel very happy at the outcome,” she overruled, and gestured to them where to keep the fee in kind.

"Care for shampoo, or massage, sir?" asked the hairdressing lady with a gentle tap on my back, more to bring me back to the present.