Summer Hair Cut and Full Pant

“Raja! Give the boy a haircut. I’ll be back in an hour,” my father said, as he hurried away to Janata Bazaar to buy mangoes after dropping me off at Raja Hair Cut Saloon (only for Men)

I walked obediently to a seat by the corner and waited my turn.

Raja Hair Cut Saloon (only for Men) was a small barber’s saloon on the bustling M.G.Road in Bijapur, on the fringes of an ever chaotic Janata Bazaar. I discovered to my dismay that Raja Hair Cut Saloon (only for Men) had been pulled down to make way for Infotech Internet Café. Raja Hair Cut Saloon (only for Men)was an integral part of my childhood.

Raja was giving a middle-aged man his weekly shave. He hummed in tune with the radio, as he worked up a brilliant white lather on the man’s chin. When the man’s face appeared to be buried in a mound of snow, Raja walked up to the radio and fiddled with a knob. Seconds gave way to minutes, before Raja settled for Mohamed Rafi song “Maang ke saath tumhara”.

“Enri Gowdre !” Raja burst out and reached for his razor.

I looked away, familiar with all the action in Raja Hair Cut Saloon (only for Men) and poked around a pile of magazines, until I found an old edition of a Kannada magazine.

I leafed through the magazine, pretending to be casual and disinterested, until I came upon the centerfold. My raging hormones came to the fore, as beads of sweat broke out on my forehead. Here was a well-fed woman, to say the least, bursting out of her clothes – her cleavage almost beginning at the base of her Adam’s apple and a deep navel flattening into a wavy line among the numerous folds of her adipose-rich stomach.

“OK! It’s your turn,” Raja’s voice rescued me before I got sucked into the woman’s navel. Raja was giving the finishing touches, as he skillfully shaved away disgusting tuft of untidy hair from his client’s left armpit.

Hurriedly, I discarded the magazine and climbed onto the chair. It was not actually an ordinary chair…it was a throne; it was like an altar halfway to ultimate realization – something that could make boys into men and men into …if not boys…atleast younger men. For me, it was not just a chair – it was always The Chair.

“It’s a summer-cut, right?” Raja ventured as he wrapped a sheet, more blue than white, around my shoulders.

A summer-cut, to the uninitiated, is when you tell the barber to close his eyes and snip away at will. Don’t bother with style, you may say, just bring the hair down to an inch – not just the sides and the back, but all over.

But a summer-cut by Raja was in a different league altogether – Raja was like the Tiger Woods of summer-cuts - which means the hair would be cropped down to less than half-an-inch and would resemble the arid wastelands of the Kutch ( in peak summer and after having been ravaged by marauding bulls, kept hungry for atleast three and a half days) . A summer-cut at Raja Hair Cut Saloon (only for Men) ensured that I could go around for a month and a half without bothering to comb my hair. I shuddered at the prospect of having to undergo the ordeal yet again.

I pulled up my fourteen-year old bones-and-body on The Chair and gave it my best shot with a voice, still trying to break away from a persistent childhood.

“No. Give me a Step Cut.”

It came out easier than I had expected. I had been grappling with the idea for an entire year.
Raja paused, scissors frozen in mid-air, “Are you sure?”

“Of course. I am too old for a summer-cut – I am fourteen years old. I have even started wearing long pants.”

That was a lie. I was still wearing shorts, despite the fact that Adil Mohammed, a friend and two years younger than me, had started wearing long pants two moons ago and a day after his circumcision. My father, with cold reason, had shot down all my pleas for long pants. You can get two pairs of shorts for the price of one pair of full length trousers, papa yelled. No amount of sulking brought him around. I was still the only boy in the Ninth Standard wearing shorts, a gawky wreck with thin thighs, perennially bruised knees and hairless shins. Life was tough, especially when girls also boarded the same bus to school (sigh! That’s another story!)

“Please give me a Step Cut,” I pleaded.
Raja looked at me, his eyes shining with unbridled amusement.
“OK. Customer is King.”
He worked his scissors busily in the air.

Snip! Snip! Snip!

He yelled through the open door to Iqbal Bhai, “! One Special Tea.”

Iqbal Bhai, owner of Sohail Tea Stall ( with 786 written next to the name ) located across the road, raised his hand in acknowledgement and continued pouring out a continuous sheet of milk from a large jar and catching it effortlessly in another.
I waited patiently for Raja to start. I prayed that Raja finished his haircut before papa came back.

Snip! Snip! Snip!

Raja approached and set to work on my mop of hair…for maybe only a minute. He withdrew, working his scissors in mid-air.

Snip! Snip! Snip!

Raja moved to the radio and once again fiddled with the knob, not satisfied with the fare being played out on almost all the channels (actually only two those days). Finally he gave up and returned to his work.

Snip! Snip! Snip!

The radio blared, “I am a Disco Dancer…”

Raja worked at a furious pace…for maybe two minutes, before Iqbal Bhai’s Special Tea arrived. Raja paused, took a noisy sip and grimace as his tongue burnt with the boiling-hot liquid. He took another cautious and even noisier sip before he put the cup down.

Snip! Snip! Snip!

The radio blared as I pondered over Papa’s reactions when he got back.

“I am a Disco Dancer…”

All possible reactions, I envisaged, terminated in a sound thrashing. I could consider myself lucky, if Amma( Mother ) stepped in to save me. That depended on her moods, if the poor lady’s toothache was still persisting, I couldn’t expect any assistance from those quarters. The Step Cut idea now seemed to be a ghastly mistake. Alas, too late. Raja was merrily cutting away chunks of hair. There was no return – Mentally, I prepared myself, So Step Cut it is!

Raja joined the chorus and snipped away in time. “I am a Disco Dancer…”

Snip! Snip! Snip!

Raja finally made it to the end of the haircut, taking seven intolerable rest-pauses to sip tea from his cup. I barely had time to admire myself, before Papa looked in.

“Over…Let’s go,” he beckoned, without actually looking in my direction.
“Here, Raja,” Papa held out three rupees. “Sir, not two… five rupees for a step cut.”
Papa was surprised. He turned…and glowered at my new mop…he did not say a thing. He soundlessly handed over two more rupees to Raja.

I heard Raja yelling, “Iqbal Bhai! One Special Tea,” as we left for home. Papa walked quietly, straining with the weight of a heavy bag in each hand – four drumsticks were sticking out of one bag, I registered through the corner of my eyes. I was aware of Papa taking quick glances as we walked in silence. I prayed silently, with a heavy heart – as bristles on the nape of my neck pricked me, serving me constant reminders of things to come.

I went home and quickly changed into my favourite shirt – a faded blue full-sleeved shirt - the one I wore when I expected a hiding. It was the thickest shirt I had…maybe I was foolish enough to think that it could soften the blows. But it was all I had…something to hold onto…my only friend in distress.
I waited…and waited the whole day.
Nothing happened. Not a blow, not even a word. Amma even remarked that the Step Cut suited me. My sister liked it…as for Papa, I think he liked it.

Because the next day, he took me to New Look Tailors and gave orders to Ismail Bhai to stitch me my first pair of long pants – in my favourite blue colour.