As a child, and even as a teenager during my golden years, one didn’t have much say in when to get a haircut. For me, even until I landed the permanent job I often talk about, I didn’t have the freedom to choose. It wasn’t about how long your hair was, but rather how much money was in your wallet. In my younger days, style did matter, but that was only for those with plenty of money to spare without having to worry about balancing income and expenditure.

My earliest memory of getting a haircut dates back to when I was about five years old. And yes, it was in Pahar Ganj—a place that still lingers in my memory. It was a small establishment with around five or six revolving chairs and the constant cluck-cluck sounds of scissors. Apart from the chairs, there was nothing appealing about the place. It was dingy and morose, with serious-looking barbers handling the heads and hair of their clients. The tools they used resembled cockroaches and were quite unsettling. Sometimes, these tools would painfully pluck at your hair or even cut your skin. Scissors were rarely used, if I recall correctly. Instead, they had knife-like instruments that they would vigorously rub on a leather belt—quite a frightening sight. And who looked in the mirror to admire themselves?

I don’t recall how often I visited these dismal places that reminded me of cockroaches, cuts, unpleasant smells, and noise. Perhaps it was whenever my parents decided it was time or when they had a bit of extra money. The only barber shop in Pahar Ganj that I remember well is the one I’ve just described. I can still visualize how it looked, but after that, my memory goes completely blank until I reached Chennai.

The first barber shop I visited in Chennai was quite renowned. They even had a bath where one could take a hot shower. The place boasted of a Governor’s award or something similar and displayed a message from the Governor.

For about two years, at intervals I can’t quite remember, my father, my brother, and I went there for our haircuts. One of the barbers who usually cut my hair affectionately called me ‘vanangamudi,’ meaning my hair could never be tamed. It was so rough and unruly. Quite a memorable certificate, indeed.

127. Crops and Cuts - Part 2