The barber experience

There are great things in life for all of us to enjoy, and then there's the truly sublime - like the barber experience. Remember the barber? Before there were hair stylists, hair dressers and hair sculptors, there were...barbers. The barber was a comfortable father figure when you were a kid - distant enough not to tell you to to finish your vegetables, close enough to drum your head with his fingers till your ears rang!

Going to a good barber shop is a profound experience, and I collect barber shops like other people collect coffee shops - after all isn't a haircut far more personalized and critical than some daft concoction that's less coffee and more 21st century adult strawberry caramel mocha milkshake with whipped cream topping! Besides, the haircut stays with you longer. For me, the experience starts with admitting I have something growing on top of my head that only Monsieur Barber can address i.e. too much hair. Once at the barbershop, I have to give up control of my life for the next hour or so at least. First, in waiting for my turn on the chair and then, in completely ceding control of my head to the man with the scissors.

Something that is blissful at a base level ensues, as with the best barber I've ever encountered - an unnamed soul in a side-street of a small town who had come to recognize me whenever I showed up at his shop, at 830am on a Saturday morning. We'd nod at each other, and he'd go on shaving the elderly gent on the chair. A young boy, one of the master's apprentices, would silently materialize at my side and offer a steaming cup of sweet milky tea. While sipping the tea and reading the day's paper I would feel the pace of life palpably down-shifting to match the gentle snip-snip, scratch-scratch of expertly wielded scissors and razors. At some magically synchronized moment, I'd be summoned to the master's chair right around the time the tea finished. A brief pause, the crisp white sheet being slid to fit around my neck, and we'd be good to go. I'd lean back, close my eyes, but stay aware enough to respond to gently murmured commands or the firm pressure of careful fingers to tilt my head left, right or back, there, just so. As the sound of scissors continued, punctuating the soft conversation between the master and his acolytes, my mind would wander - thinking through work, love, life with immense appreciation and detachment at the same time. Bending my neck forward so he could form the back into a civilized shape. And then once the snipping ceased, so would all conscious thought - as the master began the ritual of the rapid head massage - palms squeezing fingers drumming till my head sang and my ears turned red. Once done, I'd be allowed to gather myself for a minute or two after this local nirvana, sitting there undisturbed while he went about cleaning up.

Just thinking about that barber makes me feel somewhat peaceful, despite being surrounded by hairstylists who are by appointment only (!), or Supercuts, where the Viet women do a swift, impersonal and terribly efficient job with the shears and clippers. A friend of mine prefers this route, and he's got it down to a science - all he does is say, "Number-3" (that's the clipper caliber or something), as he slides into a chair and three minutes later, he's done. I think he's missing out on something - this easily accessible renewal of the self, a local nirvana that's probably available in your neighborhood. Its a universal experience of sorts, present across the world in some shape or form...so wherever you are, remember to take time when you find a really good barbershop, and let me know so I can add to our collection, would you?