My hair stylist probably winces upon my arrival at his salon. Most often than not, I have to drag him out of the table he is hiding under and issue a few verbal threats . That is generally followed by a couple of whacks on his pathetic face to force him to give me a haircut.
Before you start wondering about the endearing relationship
between me and my hair stylist , let me tell you a story.....
It was one of those winters when u like to grow your hair long and thick to provide a much needed insulation (for my head of course) from the december chill .
No, nothing happened during that winter.....It all started after that .
My parents disapproved of my long locks as boys are not allowed to grow their hair this long.
Things became worse when the neighbourhood stray cat disappeared and was found dead days later in my hair ( Due to asphyxia). Dad virtually points a flamethrower at my head and I am forced to submit. ( better cut it than get it burnt)
I entered into the salon dragging my hair along . The barber gave me one of his usual cordial smiles and beckoned me on to his chair.
"and how would you like it sir?" the gentleman asked.
With a evil grin I said "cut it short maestro".
He picked up his tools like a tenor would pick up his baton and with a customary 'snip snip ' in the air, he began. A clank was the next sound ...if it was the right way to describe it. The barber looked at me with dismay and probably shock as he held his now broken scissors in his nimble fingers. What an inauspicious start.
He composed himself soon enough and picked up his next pair and restarted.... albeit cautiously. The new pair of scissors met with a similar fate...and the barber wrung his hair with anger. Slowly he wheeled my chair closer to the sink and began a series of washing and scrubbing and shampooing and scrubbing again. Finally after what seemed to be an eternity , i was back facing my own reflection along with that of an exasperated man. Slowly and carefully he began snipping away at my wonderful locks till they lay all around me like the dead soldiers protecting their king. He was like a crazy despot who sought to lay bare all the fields he set his foot upon.
Halfway through the ordeal, my perfectionist alter ego woke up and halted his progress with
a raised hand.
His inertia nearly cut off my ear.
I now started instructing him ..." cut it this way ...and that way, a little here and a little there, not too short , a little long here, leave this part intact,... take care of my side locks......, no no no .. wait ill show you" .. and I grab his scissors and chase him all around town till he is subdued. I then demonstrate a bit of my finesse on his hair.
(It ends up looking somewhat like a cross between a
sheared sheep and a wet dog.)
I am finally chained to my chair and blinfolded too. Then for a time (which seems like ages) I am oblivious to my surroundings ( I may have been drugged too, I dont blame the barber though).
Finally and finally I see a strange looking man in the mirror and after a while recognise myself. "Hmmm not bad at all" I remark. But the barber is no longer to be seen . I later learnt that he was rushed to the nearest hospital for stress related fatigue syndrome.
I dust away the leftover hair on my face and shoulders and walk home to my happy parents.
I eagerly await the end of the next winter........while my barber plans a vacation at that time .....probably to a far off place where my dreadlocks dont reach......