PERSONALITY
TREND
FASHION
SPECIALS
ARCHIVES

V Gangadhar

Men of steel

Very soon, the barbers of Maharashtra will be on the streets. And with good reason too. More than 15,000 barbers will assemble for the two-day convention of the Rajya Nabhik Mandal (State Barbers' Association) at Nashik to deliberate on several major issues. These include reservations, space for barber shops at bus stations and abolition of service tax. Several politicians from different parties will be present at the function.

I was happy that the barbers were keen to have their rights protected. After all, they were important members of our society; why should they lose out? I know that my association with barbers these days is rather limited. My wife insists that I have my hair "styled" (not cut) by one of her friends who works from home. But, over the years, I had befriended many barbers and they were really men of steel!

My first impression of barbers was not very pleasant. When I was growing up, the village barber was an impressive allrounder. He cut hair, practised minor surgery (boils and so on) and functioned as a medical consultant. Some of the barbers played the dhavil (drum) in temples and took part in other musical programmes.

I had to have close contacts with barbers because father never allowed me to grow any hair on my head. Every week or fortnight, I had to submit to a crew cut which was called a "close crop" in those days. It was not a pleasant experience. The village barber used rusty, old clippers which really hurt, particularly over the ears.

Grandmother, who was very orthodox, insisted that I should not enter the house without a bath after a haircut. So, once I was released from the barber's clutches, I rushed to the well which was at the back of the house, drew several buckets of water and poured them on my head. The barber was supposed to belong to the lower caste and his touch had to be removed before one could enter the house.

Father himself underwent frequent haircuts. Yet, during his college days, he had sported long hair which he kept beautifully combed; all those incriminating photographs are still pasted in the family album. He also confessed that, as a student, he was nicknamed Frank Churchill, after a character in Jane Austen's Emma who always went to town for a haircut.

I do not know how or why my father developed an aversion for long hair. But it affected me and, till the time I was in school, I had to make do with very short, cropped hair.

As we moved from town to town, I made the acquaintance of several different barbers. All of them were cheerful and paid special attention to me because I was the "collector's son". They regarded it as a special privilege to have been asked to trim the hair of the collector and his son. Some of them would not even accept payment, but father was very particular on this point. He would pay them first, then only allow the proceedings to begin.

Once I left school and joined college, I was freed from the tyranny of having weekly/fortnightly haircuts. My father stopped interfering with my hair cuts. And I did not waste any time in trying out different hair styles. Dilip Kumar's uncombed hair fascinated me and, for some months, I had hair falling all over my forehead. This earned me the nickname paratta thalai (wild hair).

I no longer submitted my head to the barbers who normally visited the house in search of business. For the first time, I enjoyed the luxury of hair dressing saloons and, while in Palakadu, cycled all the way to the Sultanpet shopping area to have my hair trimmed. Frank Churchill Jr had arrived!

It was surprising how one got used to a particular barber. In a crowded saloon, I would wait until my favourite barber was free to attend to me. Later, in Ahmedabad, I started what I call "saloon hopping". If my favourite hairdresser switched jobs and joined a new saloon, I followed him to his new working place.

I particularly remember an aged Muslim barber who shifted from one place to another and informed me about his plans beforehand. Besides cutting my hair to my satisfaction, he told interesting stories about his early days in Pakistan and North-West Frontier Province. He had fought duels, challenged the British, eloped with beautiful women.... I do not know if his stories were true or not, but he was a master story teller. Constant chewing of tobacco made him a victim of cancer of the mouth and he died in the local hospital.

I missed my favourite barber so much that I did not have a hair cut for three months.

Apart from barbers, hair care has changed so much over the years. In my younger days, I had to use a lot of oil on my hair before every bath. Liberal quantities of oil and water were regarded a must for smooth, easy-to-comb hair, though the combination did make the combs dirty. Even my favourite Hollywood film heroes like Tyronne Power sported hair which looked as if it had been kept down with water and hair oil. Dennis Compton, my favourite cricketer in those days, modelled for Brylcream and, naturally, I too began using it.

But in today's modern ways, no one seems to use the oil-water combination. The 'dry look' is in. I too gave up using oil on my hair. Clippers appear to have disappeared. Young men from affluent families choose hair styling as a profession and learn the art from London or Paris. Society can no longer label them as ambattans (derogatory reference to barbers in Tamil) or treat them as untouchables. Modern affluent women run after these hair stylists whose appointment books are always full. It is certainly a far cry from the days of the poor village barber.

Illustration: Dominic Xavier