A Cut Above - A Frontier Reclaimed

This may well be one of the most politically incorrect things I'm about to do. As the whole world (and it's aunt) glorifies International Women's Day I strike a note of defiance and discord.

Ever since last Saturday I've been restless. Sleep, too, has eluded my nights. I wake up each morning, bleary eyed, and look at myself in the mirror. It is not a pretty sight - never much to look at, to begin with, I have been looking even more disheveled these past few days. 

It's the hair. It's all wrong. Wavy patterns. Sticking out like weeds, especially around the ears. It's too long. That's the problem. Too long. It's grown to all of two inches, by God! 

I need a hair cut. And so, today morning, a Sunday, I go over.

There was a time... My neighbourhood had a barber. Yes, a barber. Exactly one. Exactly the quantity required. This was not too long ago. 

And then things changed. The n.hood now has more than several, which is many. All of them nice, fancy, air-conditioned places. Offering more than a hair cut. 

A manicure. Pedicure. Streaks. Bleach. De-tan. And a lot more. I can - and have - tolerate these, without succumbing. 

But... All these new and hep upmarket places have a feature that leaves me uncomfortable. They are all *Unisex* "parlours" 

And there lies my problem. A serious one. 

It's as if the last frontier has been breached. The last bastion has fallen. There's no place left where a man can get his haircut in quiet peace. 

To the left there's chatter. To the right there's chatter. One feels like one is in the middle of the charge of the light brigade. Colouring to the left, curlings to the right, volleyed and thundered.... And even the men who come there?! It is as if no one goes for a plain hair cut any more... They want to perm, they want to make three strands long, they want a small bit of goats hair below the lower lip... And the discussions are endless. 

So, today, I went for a haircut. To THE barber. Who, seeing me after almost a decade, nods silently and quietly points to a seat while attending to an already seated client. 

I look around. Familiar surroundings. Simple. Basic. Nothing fancy. Not a sign of female presence. Not even on the walls. Silence prevails, except for the occasional snip of a pair of scissors. And once in a while, a comment. 

Conversation. Not chatter. About the state of the economy. And corruption. And politics. The customer and the barber dwell, briefly but wisely, equally dismissive of Sharad Pawar and Modi, equally contemptuous of Rahul Gandhi and Kejriwal. I keep my silence. Do not interrupt "Men at Work"

Once done, he turns to me, looks at my reflection in the mirror, nods and asks a decade old question, "Ek dum short, hai na?" and, without waiting for my response, begins.

I feel at peace. A frontier has been reclaimed.