An ode to humble barbers of yore

GETTING our hair cropped at the local salon was a monthly ritual during our childhood in the 1960s. Our Christian school required pupils to have short, well-trimmed hair. My four brothers and I would be told by our parents a day in advance to prepare for our haircut. The designated day was usually a weekly holiday.

We trooped off to the barber, escorted by our father. We detested this exercise as it reduced our fun time with friends and neighbours. With long faces, we would head to the barber shop after breakfast to beat the weekend rush. The small salon featured a pair of front batwing doors, which swung in and out, so patrons didn’t have to figure out whether to push or pull. Getting in and out was a breeze. The sound of them creaking as we ran past was a source of joy for us little ones.

Upon entering, we settled on the long wooden bench and awaited our turn. Older patrons enjoyed the barber’s pleasantries, which included local gossip and the latest news. I found some of the salon conversations quite exciting. However, a few gentlemen opted to read the English newspaper or listen to the film songs drifting from a radio. Back then, barbers used straight-edge or cut-throat razors for shaving or tonsuring. Its defining feature was a long, exposed, single blade that folded into the handle. Barbers sharpened blades using either a stropping belt or a whetstone.

Although the haircut was inexpensive, some clients still haggled with the barber to lower the rate. My brothers and I got our hair cut one after another, beginning with the oldest. With a watchful eye, our father observed the barber at work. His order was always a crew cut, trimmed with a zero machine at the back of the head. No haircut ever satisfied him; he always demanded more trimming from the hairdresser. The entire process took a couple of hours, and at the end, the crew cut made us look like plucked chickens.

Meanwhile, our mother kept the water boiling at home for the bath. She fed dry twigs and coconut shells into a large copper boiler in the bathroom. Dad gave us an excellent scrubdown and bath. Once the exercise concluded, he dried, powdered and dressed us in crisply ironed clothes. He persevered with this task until we reached high school.

However, my dad cycled to another barber shop, a few kilometres from our home, to get a haircut. He kept going there till his dying day. He had a great rapport with his barber, and they spent hours reminiscing. Our paternal grandfather had also patronised the same shop, whose owner was the father of dad’s barber. Sadly, the shop is gone, and the barber’s whereabouts are unknown.

Today, men frequent grooming salons for diverse services — massage, manicure, facial and hair colouring. Stylish haircuts are available, but they cost a bomb. The batwing doors are gone, replaced with glass ones. So are the straight-edge razors and the stropping belt. Predatory professionals exploit gullible customers, unlike the humble barbers of yore.

Musings