Getting a haircut was a simple affair when I was a child. One went to a barber and submitted oneself to his ministrations, if that is the right word.
The barber in my childhood in the 1940s in Madras was Muniappan, elderly owner and sole worker in a salon at Purasawalkam. It was named, believe me, Bonne Foi.
Muniappan always began by scolding me; I should have come at least a month ago he would say. Whether he had genuinely forgotten that I had come a month ago or not I could never make out. But Amma insisted that my older brother and I should have short hair, and we were sent to Muniappan regularly.
Muniappan always appeared menacing, with his scissors going snip-snip-snip even before he cut hair, and bits of hair flying all over. He used the tools of his trade vigorously, and entertained no complaints. All this for eight annas (half-a-rupee).
Crew cut
The years rolled by, and I joined the Indian Military Academy in Dehra Dun. The haircut required by the drill parade instructor was not unlike what Amma had insisted on, except it was weekly and required that no hair be seen outside the beret or other headgear.
That was the barber’s responsibility, I suspect. The hair on top could be a shade longer than what Amma had permitted in my younger days. When my unit was in Kumaon and I went home on annual leave, I had to get my hair cut before rejoining my unit, and Muniappan obliged. He was much less dismissive of me, for after all, the stripling had become an officer. We conversed. He was more gentle with the comb and moved about as little as possible. Age was telling on him.
Time flies
Then my parents moved to Bangalore, and I lost contact with Muniappan. From haircuts given by barbers we moved to hairdressing done in salons. Political correctness has given dignity to the profession.
I retired 23 years ago and settled in Mysore. The salon nearest home has swivel chairs and large mirrors and it’s run by Balraj, a Muniappan look-alike, who gives me a feeling of deja vu .
I don’t go every month because my hair doesn’t grow quite as quickly as it did before. Once, just once, I asked Balraj to trim some of the hair on top, and I thought I heard him choke back a laugh.
When I told my son that Balraj charges ₹50 (it’s ₹90 now) for hairdressing and I thought it was too much, he soothingly said, “Appa, the poor guy spends so much time and effort looking for the hair, he deserves it.”
But the days of haircuts are not over. I learn that haircuts are given in the banking and finance sectors now. Haircut means “a percentage reduction in the amount that is payable to the creditors”.
It is also the difference between the market value of an asset and the asset’s reduced value when it is collateral to a loan.
I sometimes wonder whether Muniappan, my long dead short-haircut expert, has been reborn as a banker or finance minister.
sg9kere@live.com
