Shave and a Haircut

I wrote this light little piece before my trip to India and might as well post it 'cause my next one is probably going to be something heavy about the state of Nepal and the world, with all the juicy stuff I've avoided 'til now but that's filling my head past the point where I can ignore it. So enjoy the trip to the barbershop!

[Oh, and I've twiddled the blog settings so that anyone can post comments without having to be a member of blogger or what-have-you. So by all means feed me some comments, hit me with questions, critiques, exclamations.]


There’s something universal about a barber shop—the loose camaraderie of men at leisure, the talk of sports, the hair on the floor. This basic template lends itself to hundreds of forms worldwide, probably, and the local “saloons” near my rented flat in Kathmandu are ever so Southasian: everything from the color of the walls (turquoise), the cricket game on the small color TV, the mullets coiffed. The barbershop I most frequent is manned by a few men (relatives?) from the Terai, the strip of southern Nepal plains that has as much in common with North India as with hill Nepal. The shop manages to preserve something of the lackadaisical feel of the great Gangetic plain. So I don’t go often, only when I have time on my hands. Anyway, the barbershop experience can’t be rushed. I wait for a nice lazy weekend morning when I have a few days of stubble and a big dusty mop of hair. Then I settle in.
The haircuts are nothing too special, just good old-fashioned barbering with scissors and a comb. A little more party in the back than I’d like, but these guys have their methods and just try convincing them to take another inch off back there. ‘Oh no, it’ll stand up, I can’t do that. This is as short is at can go, see, I tried.’ ‘Oh I see. Yes, a mullet is most necessary. Please proceed.’ The shave, though, will put a smile and a grimace on your face. It starts with a thorough face-spritzing with a pump-pressure spritzer, a dab of Dettol shaving cream, and a thorough and vigorous lathering with a shaving brush. Out comes the straight razor and a new blade, and a few short, expert scrapes later you’re clean. Repeat for baby smoothness. All the while the barber cleans his blade on the blade of his hand, transferring the whiskery foam to a scrap of newspaper periodically. The hands work with confidence, and you have little chance to pause and reflect that this razor could slice through your carotid artery like a hot knife through butter if this barber caught a notion. Wasn’t there some South American short story about assassinating a political figure that way. . . ? But he’s toweling off the remaining foam and move to the next phase, the facewash--but not before a once-over with pitkiri, a translucent chunk of some sour and astringent mineral salt not to be confused with sodium chloride. Wetted, it’s smoothed-side glides over your face with a slight sting, leaving a fresh and tightening sensation in its wake. Enter now cosmetic product #2, something called ‘cleansing milk.’ Here the barber shows off some chops, the way he slaps and jiggles your cheeks. This is an intimate process, and you are putty in his hands: the silky milky cleanser is all over your face, even your eyelids, and the man’s fingers caress every curve of your physiognomy. Without wiping it off, he proceeds to the next application. I open my eyes, hazarding a milky sting, to see what exactly I was about to be lathered with: an ‘apricot scrub’ exfoliant mixed in the palm of the barber’s hand with—nice touch--sprinkle of rose water (clearly this tradition evolved in a hot country). This is applied a little more vigorously, with lots of shaking and rubbing. The eyelid flutter amazes. To remove the residue of cleanser, out comes a taut length of string, with twangs of which he swipes the lather off the planes of your cheeks and forehead into little lines, like the piles of dust you create while sweeping. A spongy pad takes care of the rest. Phase 3: an application of foundation (what? On such freshly-cleaned pores?) combined with fairness cream (for men of course). The foundation I graciously decline, not being one for make-up or the weird grayish-pink opacity that it confers. He insists on the fairness cream, however strange it might seem want to make this white skin whiter. I’d finally earned my stinging, satisfying application of aftershave . . .
Now, I had planned to turn down the massage. It’s just a little . . . intense. But once the barber starts his scalp treatment I can’t find the words to stop him. I think, ‘let him do my head and shoulders.’ Before long he’s broken out the counter cushion and I’m leaning forward, head down, while he worked my back over. Fingers like spider legs, poking and prodding quickly and with precision around shoulderblades. Palms pushing transverse to the elongated spine, flexing it, as if testing its springiness in the lumbar and dorsal regions. Too many practiced motions to count, even if I weren’t too mesmerized to remember them all. With me sitting upright again, he begins a series of crack-the-egg-on-your head moves that feel strangely wonderful. My world momentarily a series of flashes, comforting pressures on the plates of my skull. Then he’s working down each arm from the shoulder, twisting as he goes so the palm is upward, then giving a little hand massage before cracking each finger joint with a swift tug. We’re into the last phase, this means, the crackings. My own hands clasped behind my head like someone in a hammock, he braces on my arm and mercilessly twists, cranks my spine around like a corkscrew, going for a pop of every vertebral joint. There are other indescribable maneuvers, incredible contortions on both our parts resulting in releases of heretofore unknown tension in joints I didn’t know I had. He pulls me against the back of the chair and jerks my upper body up and back, cracking my spine, then moves onto the neck. Two quick motions, left-jerk right-jerk, and crrrick-crack, it’s done, this strangely sensuous experience. I’ve been sitting for over an hour. I pay my 150 rupees, always a matter of negotiation and I know I’m paying too much, but I can’t argue with this guy. The skill, the attention . . . the eyelid caresses and makeup and the mullet. The experience is priceless, really. I step out into the Sunday sun, contemplating a cup of chiya, a little dazed but looking and smelling like a Bollywood hero.