The Indian Barbershop Experience

About a month ago I got a haircut. I really had no idea where to go so I just went to the one that was connected to my favorite restaurant. That’s how it works in Malaysia. You find your favorite restaurant and then go from there with finding things to satisfy your needs. So I cruised on over to Bali Bali, the restaurant, and went into the barbershop conveniently located next to the seafood stall. I walked in from the hot, humid Malaysian air into the frigid box that was the barbershop. There sat four guys all fidgeting with their cell phones. About two inches of black hair covered the entire surface of the floor. Makeshift paths to the barber chairs had been carved out with a broom. I said “Selamat petang,” in that enthusiastic, dumbass sounding, everyone-loves-an-experience-in-a-foreign-country kind of tone. The four, presumed, barbers all looked at one another puzzlingly. A guy in the corner shrugged, let out a sigh, and pointed to a chair across from him. So much for high scores on Snake. I had printed out a picture a picture of George Clooney sporting the haircut I desired. I showed it to the barber and he gave me one of those “yeah boss” nods. He put the barber sheet on me and went to work. He went for the razor. It was sitting on the counter in front of the mirror with piles of hair around it. He picked it up, blew on it a few times, and proceeded to dispatch swathes of my hair. Meanwhile, another customer had come in and was getting a shave next to me. The barber wasn’t using any sort of lubricant. Every once in a while the guy getting a shave would abruptly inhale through his teeth, like the sound of opening a bottle of Coke in reverse. I hadn’t shaved in a few days and was looking a little Cast Away-ey, but I sure as hell wasn’t going to get a shave here if that’s what it entailed. My barber moved onto cutting with shears, once again retrieved from the counter and given a hardly blow to cleanse it. In retrospect, if I didn’t pick up swine flu there I probably never will. At one point the barber’s cell phone rang. “ALL THE SINGLE LADIES (all the single ladies) ALL THE SINGLE LADIES (all the single ladies).” It was as if Hitler was calling the way his upper lip snarled and looked at the little caller ID window in utter disdain. He put the phone on silent and kept on cutting.

Unfortunately, I didn’t look like George Clooney after the haircut. However, I did have a strikingly similar haircut. Few words were exchanged throughout the entire process. When he was finished, he swept off my face, neck, and shoulders with a brush that even my own mother would refuse to kiss me if she saw it. It was done. I stood up reaching into my pocket for my wallet. “Eight ringgit,” he said. For reference, RM 8 is about $2.30. I tried giving him RM 13, you know, a RM 5 tip for gratitude of his services. He took the money, counted it, and then handed me back the five ringgit note. “No, no, no you keep, it’s for you,” I said. He looked at me in this Snake Pliskin kind of way that said, “What do you think this is? This is Malaysia mother#$@%er.”

I think I’m due back for a cut in two weeks or so.


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