Guess, living in a small beach town like El Segundo means more often than not it’s a “Main Street” that houses everything of note. The cop and fire stations, couple of coffee shops, the pharmacy, pizza place, including the ubiquitous liquor store. Almost straight out of the set of Sweet Home Alabama, if you will. Sometimes making me wonder if these darn shops need them billboards after all. I mean no wife’s going to point to the mom-and-pop vide store and say,
“Sweetie… Wait here a sec. Let me grab some veggies tonight for dinner”. Right? Ummm… Maybe that wasn't funny, but cut me some slack will you? I'm just getting warmed up here! :)
But I digress. Wedged between the fire station and a café that’s whimsically open only till noon everyday, is my pet grooming studio a.k.a the barber shop. Run by a rotund cheerful lady in her 40s along with her band of two assistants. And every time I visit her its business as usual. A few minutes into my first coffee, she starts work on my distorted mop of hair, while I blissfully immerse myself in a “Vogue” or “Glamour”. I know! I know! What am I doing? Honest truth, I’m never going to pick these off the shelves of a bookstore, so what better place to figure out what those glamorous supermodels have to say, huh? Besides, a man’s got no choice you see. No “Time” or “Sports Illustrated”. Not even a small TV for me to say, "Martha, do you mind if I change it to the Santa Ana Derby? I'm hoping PurpleGold wins tonight" :)
"Experimenting with hair styles" and my name cam never be confused together. So it's always the Plain Jane “Short on the sides and back and medium on the front” for me. Two coffees and half a dozen cookies later we’re done. Unflinchingly after every session I’m asked,
“Honey… Would you like to try the new shampoo and hair gel?”
“Ummm… Not now. Maybe next time for sure”.
Same reply every darn time. I wouldn’t blame me. I’ve just convinced myself that Dial’s the answer to both body and hair. So we still have a long way to go! Walking back home and lighting one of 'em bad boys I wondered how impassionate my whole experience had been. I mean I could have just shoved my head under a robot and emerged $20 and half a pound lighter.
I like to keep dishing out life truths at the drop of a hat and here’s one more from my stable. One of the few places where stoic silence is an absolute no-no are bars and barber shops. We aren’t talking heavy-duty stuff like “Daddy was never around when I grew up…” blah blah blah! but light hearted banter like “What the $%^& are the Lakers going to do this year?” or “Why Kobe isn’t a ball hog after all!”.
Seriously, haircuts in India were always an enjoyable experience for me. “Excellent Hair Dressers” ensured it remained so every time. Yessir! The sanctum sanctorum where three distinct species of Jay’s dutifully (and cheerfully) surrendered their hair every month. The setting itself is undeniably picturesque. Nowhere else would you find a bunch of middle aged to old men outside in their lungis squatting and smoking beedis, all the while appearing to solve the world’s problems. Step in, the owner personally greets you escorting you to a bench, where you can either bide the next 15 minutes browsing through local Tamil dailies or ogle at ugly buxom women in them seedy magazines. Depends on what you’re in the mood for that morning.
Wait time over, the fun begins once I am perched on the high throne, ready to be serviced. And for the next ½ hour my barber goes ballistic about the $%^&ups of the ruling party in TamilNadu, what ails the Indian cricket team and of course, juicy Kollywood gossips and tidbits. Punctuating every revelation with,
“K…Itha pathi enna nenakkare?” (What do you think about this?)
“Correct thaan… (That’s right!)
I have a blast with my barber man. Even if it means sometimes listening to lengthy monologues. Which is why whenever I go back home I arrive with atleast three weeks worth of beard and a shaggy mane that would put even a caveman to shame. Next step? Haircut with my barber over a cup of tea and catching up like long lost buddies.
All right! I think I’ll stop here lest I ramble away like a runaway train. I'm sure whoever's reading this (other than me) ought to be thinking "Such a waste of words for something as inane as a haircut. Christ! Why can't you just say 'I got my hair cut today'?" And maybe even ready to tear their hair out. No wait! Go to my barber for that! :)
(Pausing for 30 secs)
Holy Christ! Look at my nails. I type like a madman for all these hours and they seem to have grown an inch already. Now what am I supposed to, huh? Setup an appointment with a nail stylist OR chew them off myself?
Option (b) folks. Attaboy Karthik!
