More for less.

Picture this.
Scene 1: You walk in through the glass door. (In all probability, it’s called ‘Gentleman Saloon’ or something to that effect). It’s a modest one room enterprise with no pretensions what so ever. The clientele remain faithful and walk in every fifth Sunday and get their hair cut, the same way they have been getting it cut for god knows how long. The antique radio, the size of a desktop machine which once played songs of yore now play the latest movie songs with techno beats. But it’s the cosmetic shelf that fascinates me. Some of those talcum powder brands I scarcely believed existed any longer adorn the shelf with gay abandon. He changes blades these days though. Touchwood. I wait for my turn in anticipation. Tamil dailies in various stages of deterioration lie around waiting to be read. I pick one up and browse through the pictures. A couple of Anglo Indian kids shout profanities outside for the world to hear. Someone in the box seat gets up. My turn.

The barber wraps me up in a towel and matter-of-factly reaches out for the scissors. I know what’s coming. I do the unthinkable. I stop him midway in his stance and explain gibberish to him. A Mallu animatedly explaining in broken Tamil to a barber from the innards of Guntur can’t even qualify as globalization I guess. He hardly reciprocates, but I finish my lines with great gusto. The rest of the scene though is as per script. I pay him the twenty five bucks and walk back home with the same haircut that I have been sporting since god knows when. Five Sundays later I’ll probably even come back.


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These days I get my hair dressed at Le Meridian. Minus all the unheard talcum powder brands; minus the old wooden radio box which plays songs of yore; minus all the talking gibberish and the filth spewing Anglo kids. And minus the uncomprehending innocence of my barber from Guntur. What’s more I even pay ten times more money. And for less. Lesser life, I mean.