After we moved to another area in Chennai, there was only one barber shop available, and all of us had to visit him for our haircuts. The barber was a Malayalee gentleman with frizzy hair and a very talkative nature. He was a nice guy, though. In those days, almost all barbers had large calendars with colorful photographs of popular cine actresses. There were many such calendars, along with a few Tamil magazines or weeklies—mostly old ones—lying around. The ever-popular Tamil newspaper ‘Dina Thanthi’ was in constant demand, often resulting in split pages. It wasn’t the cleanest shop, but it was effective and, most importantly, budget-friendly.

Just before my wedding, I ventured out to a shop located about three to four kilometers away. These people called themselves ‘hairstylists.’ I continued to visit them for a couple of years. The frequency of my visits, as always, depended on my purse.

In the rural area I’ve mentioned several times, as a manager, you weren’t expected to visit a barber’s shop. The barber would come to your home, cut your hair—no pun intended—and clean up afterward. There were two ‘warring’ barbers in that place, and once, by accident, both were called—one by me and one by my staff. Imagine my predicament. I ended up getting a haircut from one but paid both.

Returning to Chennai, I went to any shop I could find nearby and clean. Later, during my brother’s visit to India, he found an upscale salon in Nungambakkam. This place had a tailoring shop and offered fancy haircare services. The owner spoke in chaste English, and the shop was ultra-modern for its time, with curtained divisions. It was also quite expensive.

I used to take the kids there too. However, once, while traveling by bus, I spotted a ‘hair stylist’ specializing in children’s haircuts. On a whim, I took the kids there, and the hairstyle he gave them became their permanent look.

At some point, I stopped caring as much—I would just go to any clean and nearby place. Who wants long hair in this hot climate? Even a month and a half of growth becomes unbearable. What I get done now is almost a tonsure, and it feels so good.

And don’t even ask about the US experience. On my first visit, I really struggled. Most of these salons had women cutting hair. It was my first experience with a woman cutting my hair. There could be stylists from China, Korea, Mexico, or anywhere in the world. My accent and theirs made communication challenging. Our sons had to intervene. The first question asked was, “Do you need 1, 2, or 3?” or something like that. When I said 1 without knowing what I was getting into, I ended up almost bald. Subsequent visits became easier, thanks to my sons teaching me how to specify what I wanted. These stylists aren’t used to oil in the hair. Once, a stylist, frustrated with the amount of oil in my hair, asked if I wanted a shampoo. I said no—who wants to pay extra? The cost, converted into rupees, would be shocking. Annoyed by my refusal, she offered a free shampoo, which I accepted. Very rarely have I seen scissors being used. It’s more akin to lawn mowing; with the machine set at the required length, your head is mowed. Whatever the result, you just have to live with it.

So, when my sons visit India, the first thing they do is head to the most popular salon nearby. They’re fed up with American haircuts.

And that concludes my hair-raising tale of crops and cuts.

Continued in 128. Chuk-Chuk Book-Book - Part 1