The Barber Remembers

A strangely gratifying thing happened as I paid my barber a visit today. You know, the kind which puts a warm, fuzzy feeling inside you and makes you think of life as more beautiful than perhaps it actually is.

Whenever I am home, I go to the same saloon. Since I have always lived in Sector-14, it has been about twenty years since my first visit. As I have always been of a quiet disposition, very few words would be exchanged between me and my hair-cutter. Now this saloon employs around ten barbers, and for all I can remember, they have stayed the same men for the past two decades. I have had my hair cut by all of them at some point or the other.

These days, I don’t even need to tell the man tending to me what I need. It is always a champi, followed by a foam shave (yes, I have started working), and the occasional hair trimming. Towards the end of my shave, Mushtaq bhai started telling his fellows my story.

“You know laddies, I have been cutting this launda’s hair from the time he had to sit on a wooden plank to get a haircut. Then he used to cut it very short, and used to visit us almost every fortnight. Then, when he turned 13 or 14, he started wearing his hair much longer, and visits to us became quite infrequent. I am guessing he was trying to impress a girl or something at this point. Then, when he became older, he used to come only once in six months. Probably he went to college somewhere outside, and I remember he made it a point never to trim his beard or cut his hair short. Now that he would be around 24, he has started keeping his hair short, shaving regularly, and also needs a champi regularly. I think the poor fellow has started working.”

To my astonishment, he had gotten everything absolutely right, despite my reticent self not divulging a single detail of my personal life to him. As my hand went into my pocket to take out the money, his eyes met mine and they said it all. The barber remembers, the barber always remembers.