Face off with a barber

Yesterday I paid a visit to the barber. Not by choice - the prospect of submitting myself to gentlemen who seem to have long whiskers, a wicked smiles and sharp razors always cause a downpour of unmanly sentiments all over me. But I am a man who can take the rough with the smooth and once in every two months or when my daughter starts reciting poems about some unfortunate bloke had owls, hens, larks and a wren living in his beard, whichever is earlier, I pop over to the nearly saloon for a haircut. 

As I entered my regular saloon, it was obvious that this simple unpretentious place had had a major face lift. The overall decor seemed more stylized with John Abraham and Salman Khan looming large on every wall. The number of mirrors have quadrupled which now reflects images of Mr. Abraham or Mr Khan at every angle and reminds you of the last fight sequence from Enter the Dragon. The cheerful happy-go-lucky barbers are now attired in some black formal looking uniform which seemed to have dampened their spirits considerably. I tried to locate my regular barber, a cheerful forever-smiling fellow who is well aware of my no-nonsense haircut ("short at the back, side, short-medium in front and don't try any special style") but gave up as the kaleidoscopic view of the bollywood stars seemed to overpower everything. Eventually I selected a timid looking fellow, took a seat and closed my eyes, thereby surrendering myself to fate.

Once the ordeal was over and I was satisfied that I need not visit this or similar institutions for a considerably period, the timid barber came up with, what he described as a "package offer". Men of world are already familiar with how these stuffs work - if you buy so-and-so, then some useless thingummy will be provided to you free of cost. In this case, the bloke offered to make the haircut free provided I opt for something called "face massage" which they have just started (i.e post the revamp of the saloon). 

I pondered. I always ponder when the word "free" arrives at the horizon. In my formative years, I grew up with my cousin brother who had indoctrinated me into a philosophy of "free food", which basically meant that whenever you get to eat at someone else's expense, you must eat till the stomach muscles are near their elastic deformation limits. This reverence towards "free" stuffs was followed even my mother, who had endeavored to create a full 12 piece set of perfectly ghastly looking quarter plates, each of which were given free on consuming 10 packets of Maggi instant noodles. My mother, being extremely finicky about her crockery set, never actually used these plates but it was the principal of the matter which was important.

"It is really good for your face sir", said the fellow. "You should go for a papaya face pack sir - it will suit you."

I pondered further. Though I can hardly be described as a "metro-sexual male", my knowledgeable friends have made me aware that the latest trend is to apply fruits, vegetables and yogurts on your face instead of shoving them down the oesophagus. Eating them will probably become a passe very soon. This barber seem to be well acquainted with the latest trends in fashion (and food).  

"Wouldn't the pumpkin face pack be more appropriate - considering that I have a face like a pumpkin?", I asked, trying to make light of the situation.

"Oh no, sir!" said the fellow. He seemed shocked and scandalized with my suggestion. "May be you start with a simple herbal face massage. I'll call my senior."

Presently the senior barber arrived. He gave me a piercing glance which lasted for several seconds and the pronounced - "You have a black head."

I felt somewhat offended. I am not racist by any means and have no aspiration of possessing a milk-and-peach complexion. Nevertheless, one expects a certain amount of finesse and diplomacy from others. So I drew myself up (to the extent possible while sitting in a barber's chair), raised my eyebrows and gave him a cold stare.

"Excuse me.." - I started but was soon cut off rudely by the senior barber. "In fact, there are many black heads", said the specialist, ignoring my stern glance with the aplomb of cowboy. Clint Eastwood couldn't have handled it better.

"Pardon me, but I seemed to see only one head on my shoulder." said I, trying the most sarcastic tone I could muster. "And I am certainly not a reincarnation of Ravana."

"Uh", said the specialist. "I mean the black heads - those black marks on your face. Never mind, I will take care of that soon enough". 

Before I could really give an opinion on this, he grabbed my face at a speed which would have put Rocky Marciano to shame and tied a kind of thick headband along my hairline - the kind of stuffs action heroes like Rambo occasionally wear. The only difference is that it looks good on them but made me look like a horror from outer space. And before I could object to this, my face was smeared with some kind of coarse semisolid stuff and I was forced to close my eyes. 

The little kid sitting next to me (had been brought for a haircut by his father; poor soul) gave out a piercing cry, which, I am inclined to believe, can be ascribed to this new Darth Vader-ish look on my face. 

After this, I was subjected to a multiple cycle process which consists of 
a) vigorous rubbing on the face with some coarse substance (which seemed to last for ever)
b) wiping the face with an equally coarse spongy stuff
c) spraying water on my eyes through a large size water pistol, thereby preventing me from opening my eyes (which, on second thoughts, might have been a saving grace)

The above three steps seemed to go on like an infinite do-loop with the next door kid's continuous wail providing a somewhat monotonous background score. Just when I as getting used to this cyclic torture, there was an assault on my nose with a sharp instrument. I whelped in excruciating pain and tried to jump out of the chair but the specialist, evidently, was used to handling un-cooperative customers with a heavy hand. I could barely move my face and could do precious little except listening to satisfied grunts from this specialist (who, by then I was convinced, is an illegal grandson of Joseph Mengel). 

I tried to raise my voice but was firmly told by this hell hound of a specialist that unless these blackheads are removed, they will become white heads. The gravity in his voice seemed to suggest that once this happens, the space-time continuum of the universe will be irrevocably disturbed. I had, by then, resigned to my fate. Even the kid next to me had stopped crying and resorted to a feeble whimper. 

Eventually the assaults stopped and I could feel the gentle touch of water and a soft towel on my face. I opened my eyes and found the specialist beaming at me with the self satisfied look of big game hunter. 

"Have a look, Sir!" said the man. "You will love it."

I looked at the mirror. 

My face looked exactly the same as before. 

Thank god for that!

Yesterday, no more !!

There are bad days and there are bad days. And there are those days when everything goes wrong. Yesterday seemed to be one of those.
It began with an ominous sign. Involuntarily, I woke up at 6:30 in the morning on a Saturday. It was not provoked by one of those "some people laze around while I have to toil till my bones get pickled" stuff from my wife or my daughter deciding that my reclining enormous body mass is a good for practicing rock climbing. I woke up without any external stimulus and was in a pensive mood, not being able to figure out what was wring with me. 

I made some tea (was a disaster as I was in a contemplative mood and therefore the timing had gone for a toss), roamed listlessly and then tried to make some breakfast (boiled the living daylights out of the instant porridge for my daughter) without any spectacular success. 

I decided to spend some "quality" time with my daughter (for the less-informed ones : it is now considered fashionably metro-sexual to play some "kiddish" games with your daughter as long as you package it with some pithy advises like "your only competition is with yourself; keep trying" or "understand the hidden morality while you apply the crayons on your Barbie"). After several moments of careful pondering, I decided that golf would be a good bet. 

Let me explain this a bit, lest you start imagining that I stay in one of those sprawling bungalow with an attached mini-golf course. Sprawling bungalow, forsooth !! Golf, for me and my daughter, is played in our 12' X 8' drawing room with a plastic golf club which, in reality, is a container for selling jelly beans. The ball is a tennis ball which had appeared on our balcony courtesy some wannabe Sachin Tendulkar trying to hit a sixer. An empty blue can, which, at some point of time, housed an "Indigo" USB stick acts as the golf hole. This is, in fact, the only part of the Indigo USB stick package which is serving any purpose; the USB stick itself had decided to die a happy death within 72 hrs of purchasing the same from a lissome air hostess of Indigo airlines with a brilliant smile (Life's lesson # 32 : Never buy a USB memory stick just because the air hostess has a lovely pair of legs. The sex appeal of the air hostess has nothing to do with the effectiveness of the device in question). 

Coming back to the game of golf; my daughter beat me to it. There are several reasons to it like 
a) She plays in a unique style wherein she uses the golf club like a hockey stick and drags the ball with it till it is about 10 cm from the hole (or Indigo can, if you want to be technical about it).
b) The plastic golf club swaggers like swagging walking sticks which the Hollywood villains of 1940s used to flaunt
c) Playing golf forces you to bend down, a process which causes excruciating pain in the lumbar region. Also the substantial layers of near-permanent fat around the midriff also causes some trouble in breathing. 
After getting beaten thrice in a row, I decided to give it up. This "quality time" was getting on to my nerves and I decided that a return to the traditional tough father was in order. I decided that it is now study time for the kiddo.
Nowadays, there is something called EVS in their curriculum. The full form of EVS has been carefully concealed but from what I could gather, it is designed to teach general knowledge to children. I started with "sense organs" and tried to explain to my daughter that nose is for smell. She promptly pointed out that it is for making noises - the kind I make while I am sleeping. I let it pass, though made a careful note of it for taking up with the missus ("Where is she learning all these stuffs? No respect for parents...blah blah blah). Next were the eyes, wherein she commented that I keep them closed whenever I am at home as I am usually sleeping. She also masqueraded my alleged use of eyes and nose with an astonishing degree of accuracy. 
She seemed to have a more than necessary grip on "sense organs", I decided to switch to "My family". Here I explained her "Father", "Mother", "Parents" etc and the progress was generally peaceful till we reached "siblings". Things started hot at this stage as incisive questions like why she does not have any siblings, how are children born, why we cannot get a sibling next day morning etc were asked. Things really started getting out of hand when she started asking whether the "guard" is a "brother" of the "maid" and why they always hold hands and wink at each other. Enough education for the day, I concluded. Let the "idiot-box nanny" with her unending series of Tom and Jerry take over. 
It was nearing lunch time and nothing to eat in the house. I decided to drive down to a newly opened eatery and check it out. It is a joint called Big Mouth and has some very fancy stuffs like "Chammak Challo" (Lachcha Parantha with dal, curd, pickle), " Kuddi Panjaab Di" (Chawal with Rajma) and similar stuffs. The key offering seemed to be a dish called "Murgi Phansi Jaal Me" (which, simply put, is chicken curry and rice). I decided to play safe and bought a couple of kathi rolls. These were the weirdest rolls I had ever consumed - a thin semi-cooked roti wrapping mashed Chinese style non-veg stuffs and capsicums by the dozen. 
In the evening, I tried another round of golf with the daughter - this time with a hockey stick and in the garage. The results were not dramatically different except that since I was outdoor, I felt as parched as a blotting paper. A dash to the refrigerator revealed that we are in the midst of a severe urban crisis, namely, lack of soft drink / beer / fruit juice in the house. Oh darn! 
I was brave enough (and optimist enough) to think that I can salvage the situation by cooking dinner myself. I sometimes cook on holidays and I always find it to be relaxing. Today being today, I chose a safe dish - Pasta, something which I cook rather well on my normal days. Today, however, things were not quite the same. Despite adding mushrooms in copious quantities, spring onions, capsicum, origano, cheese, more cheese, more origano, can of tuna, boiled eggs, the result was a huge bowl of white bland tasty-as-cardboard pasta!! The dinner was as cheerful as a funeral dinner with daughter giving strange expressions while pushing the stuff down her esophagus and wife munching the stuff with a moody silence. I tried to make light of the situation with a great deal of small talk but this valiant effort on my side was met with Al Capone-ish looks from the feminine side of the family. 
Finally, the night quietly flowed it. The daughter dozed off to a deep slumber, the wife was still  busy on the net and I was feeling drained of all energy and wanted to have a quiet death. Just when I was closing my eyes, my wife spoke with a spine-chilling surety in her voice :
"Hope you have not used too many utensils and have not made the kitchen very dirty!! The maid might not come tomorrow". 
I rolled over to the other side, hiding my face from my wife and trying not to think what her reaction would be when she enters the kitchen the next day morning. Amen!!

Statutory Warning about the movie "Born Free"

Statutory Warning : It is dangerous to allow children below 8 years to watch the legendary movie “Born Free”. Watching this movie causes certain behavioural changes in the child which could be stressful to the parents, especially for the father. A synopsis of the same is attached below:

Symptom 1 : Roaming around the house with the tongue hanging out and panting continuously. This creates an illusion of having a 4 legged beast in the house which, unless one is really brave and couldn’t-care-less kind of a guy, is rather un-nerving. It also leads to your neighbour avoiding you fearing that your child suffers from hydro-phobia (this, in retrospect, is not such a bad thing sometimes).

Symptom 2 : Occasionally pouncing on the unsuspecting parent (usually the father) with a catlike flexibility and ferocity. The suddenness causes the parent spring into an active position from a reclining posture and consequently leads to excruciating pains in the lumber region and/or lower spine. Possibilities of a cardiac arrest or a near-permanent damage to the spinal column or both cannot be entirely ruled out.

Symptom 3 : Having achieved the desired result with Symptom 2, the child also might lick your face – something, which is definitely bad for the child’s alimentary system and disastrous for the parent’s mental framework. Especially if the father had just tried a new after shave and is feeling particularly nice about it.

Symptom 4 : Instead of Symptom 3, the child might also follow up symptom 2 with a long hysterical guffaw with associated hand gestures which are, to put it mildly, extremely insulting and infuriating. This can force the lifelong pacifist father to reach out for a hard and blunt instrument – an act which, in the court of law, would be ruled as child abuse due to the ignorance of the judges about the ill effects of this movie.

Symptom 5 : Will insist on clutching to his/her “lion soft toy” (which was neglected all these years) all the time. Normally this is bearable except when the child insists on feeding this contraption with dust-laden mare and complains that his/her ‘Elsa’ is refusing to eat. Pretending to act deaf will not yield the desired result as the child also develops a compulsive mental dis-order and will not let you go till you have also tried feeding ‘Elsa’.

Symptom 6 : Will threaten his/her mother that he/she will go away and then “mama” will cry. To make matters worse, she will also threaten that she will come back with three kids like Elsa did. At this point of time, you will be kicked out of your leisurely reverie and will be rendered speechless.

The above is, by no means, a complete analysis as the period of study/ evaluation was in-sufficient. Added to this is the fact that the observer, who also is the father, could not maintain the mandatory clinical detachment necessary for a scientific study. Not only were the aforementioned symptoms nerve-wrecking, it was compounded by the firm assertion by the mother of the child that things have gone so far due to indulgent treatment of the observer/ parent. Such blatantly unjust and malicious allegations also might cause the father to brood, sulk or generally become regressively philosophical about life.

Please spread this link to as many parents as possible. Let them not suffer like I have. I am trying to tie up with FB/ Twitter that for every 100 clicks, they will donate 1 $ which will be used to burn all prints of the blasted movie and make the world a better place for all parents.

Cheerio.