The Drudgery of Barber’s Chair

Barber’s chair is my second least favorite place to sit. If you’re interested to know, chair of a dentist is the one I dread most. 

My despise of barber’s chair is because when it comes to hair, I have too few on my head that I do not need to do anything special for them. I especially don’t need any fancy barber to take care of them. After every few months, my side hair starts growing in all directions, and that’s the time to pay a visit to my barber. 

For me, choosing a barber is the most challenging thing as I look for three qualities in him or her. 

1) He should not up-sell or cross-sell any services as I have no inclination to use them. I could never wrap my head around facial, manicure, pedicure or head massage. When a barber starts pushing such services to me, I know it is time to look for a new barber.

2) I always appreciate an efficient barber who clips my dancing side hair in no time. Services of barber are always unjustifiably thrusted upon me by God by giving me disco dancing hair on my side while not much is left on the top. 

3) My barber should have good stories and is more than willing to share gossips going around in the city. Sharing good stories is something I care about most in my barber. And I have found most of them are pretty good storytellers. 

When I moved to Canada, I found a barber near my house in Brampton. And he turned out to be one of most eloquent fellow I have ever met in my life. He shared all kinds of stories with me. He shared stories about his struggles. He openly expressed his business concerns with customers. And he articulated notorious neighborhood stories with elan. I had no way to authenticate his anecdotes, but he was entertaining. 

One time he suggested me to get new hair grafted on my head. 

“You won’t believe that I was bald. If I show you my old picture, you will be surprised to see a change in my look.” He said. 

I nodded. But before I could say anything else, he stopped cutting my hair and went to the counter to fetch his wallet and came back with his open wallet and showed his picture on his driving license. 

“See, this is me completely bald four years back and look at my hair now. It is all grafting. I got them from India as it is cheap to get it from there. I suggest this to all my clients, and many of them get it as they see me as a good advertisement for this practice.” He added. 

“I will think of it,” I said to ward him off politely. 

Then I moved to Mississauga. Important scheduling of a meeting with a client meant that I get a haircut immediately. Thus, begun my search for new barber. With no intention of putting much effort in my search, I entered the first salon that I saw. It was empty and a lady was sitting idly in one corner. 

“Are you open?” I asked. She looked at me and gestured towards the empty chair with her hand. I sat there like an obedient school kid. 

“So, what you want me to do with your hair?” She asked while arranging her scissors, clippers, and trimmer like a surgeon organizes his equipment before a critical surgery. 

“I have an important meeting coming up so shorten them a bit which gives me a tidy and professional look.”

She nodded and started her trimmer. She tried explaining to me what she was planning to do with my hair. I hardly cared. Machine buzzed for about five minutes and chipped all free-flowing hair. In those five minutes, lady barely uttered any word. Those five minutes seemed like an eternity for me. 

“Are you an Italian?” She asked me. 

I was surprised for two reasons. Firstly, why would she think of me as someone with Italian descent? Secondly, she uttered words!

“No, I am Indian. Why do you say so?” I asked. 

“Italians are generally bald. I have hardly seen any bald Indian.” She said with a hint of surprise. 

“You sure seem to have not seen many Indians in your life.” I wanted to say but decided to keep quiet.  

“But it’s okay. You can start shaving your head after a while.” She said in the way of comforting me. 

Then she started sharing his Canadian experience. “I like everything about Canada except for its weather. It snows in January, February, and March. Now next three months, it will continue to rain. This rain is going to make me mad. And then you will have winter knocking on your doors again. There’s hardly a time to go out and enjoy outdoors in this country. Canada is such a beautiful country, but there’s hardly any favorable time to enjoy it.” She said.    

If you’re in Canada, a gripe about the weather will find a way in your conversations. But the good thing is that I’ve found a new barber as she met my three criteria.