Mr. Barber
The Conversation:
The dining table was set for a modest lunch—steaming bowls of dal, freshly cooked rice, and a plate of pickled vegetables at its center. I sat across from my mom, the usual clink of cutlery against porcelain breaking the comfortable silence. Outside, the midday sun cast long, lazy shadows across the veranda.
I was halfway through my meal when my mom cleared her throat, her tone measured but deliberate. “Rohan,” she said, “I’ve been thinking about doing something… different this summer.”
I looked up mid-bite, my curiosity piqued. “Different? Like what? Taking a trip?”
She smiled faintly, but there was a hesitation in her expression. “Not a trip. Something closer to home. About myself.”
I set my spoon down and leaned forward a bit. “Okay… You’ve got me curious now. What’s on your mind?”
She hesitated, her fingers toying with the edge of the tablecloth. “I want to cut my hair short. Really short. A summer haircut, like the ones you usually get.”
I blinked, taken aback. “Wait. You mean short-short? Like… really short?”
She nodded, her lips pressing into a firm line. “Yes. That’s exactly what I mean. It’s been on my mind for weeks now. The heat, the time it takes to maintain my hair… I’m tired of it.”
“You’re serious?” My voice came out softer, more uncertain. “I mean, it’s your hair and all, but you’ve always loved it. You’ve put so much effort into keeping it long.”
Her expression softened, but her resolve didn’t waver. “I did love it, Rohan. But things change. I’m at a point where I want simplicity. Something easier, something freeing. And honestly, I want to feel a little daring.”
I stared at her, trying to picture the image of my mom—her elegant, cascading curls—next to this sudden desire for a radical change. “Did you tell Dad about this?” I asked cautiously.
“I did,” she said, taking a sip of water. “He was surprised, but he understands. He knows how much I’ve thought about this.”
I rubbed the back of my neck, still processing it. “So why tell me? Are you asking for my opinion, or…?”
“I’m telling you,” she said gently, “because I trust you. And because I’ll need your help. I don’t want to go to some random salon where people might gossip. So… I was thinking you could take me to your barber.”
letting out a nervous chuckle I reply, “Harish? Mom, he mostly does guys’ haircuts. Are you sure about this? It’s a big step.”
“I’m sure,” she said firmly. “I want it done well, and I trust you to choose the right person.”
I exhaled, shaking my head with a mix of amusement and uncertainty. “Alright, if you’re that sure… I’ll take you. But don’t blame me if it turns out shorter than you expected.”
Her smile widened, tinged with gratitude. “Thank you, Rohan. I promise, no regrets. It’s just hair—it’ll grow back.”
I nodded, a small smile tugging at my lips. “You’re braver than I thought, Mom. I guess we’ll find out just how freeing a summer cut can be.”
As we fell back into our conversation, I couldn’t help but glance at her occasionally, a mix of admiration and lingering surprise in my gaze. The lunch, much like our exchange, carried an air of anticipation—an ordinary meal preluding an extraordinary decision.
The Day of the Haircut:
It was a Friday morning when I became acutely aware of the significance of what was about to transpire. I had taken a half-day leave from college, responding to my mother’s unusual request to accompany her to the barbershop. A week earlier, she had approached me with a proposition that seemed almost absurd: she wanted a summer haircut. Initially, I had dismissed it as a fleeting jest, a whim unworthy of serious consideration. Yet, as the days unfolded, her resolve proved steadfast. Confronted with her determination, I had no choice but to oblige. The decision to take her to my usual barbershop, rather than some unfamiliar establishment, stemmed from a calculated effort to ensure both competence and discretion—after all, this was my mother’s hair, and the stakes felt immeasurably high.
We departed from home at approximately 9 AM, arriving at the shop just as it opened. The space was vacant, save for Harish, the barber, who was meticulously dusting the shelves. His posture—back turned to the entrance—exuded a quiet focus.
“Good morning, Harish!” I greeted, striving to infuse my voice with an air of nonchalance, though a certain trepidation undercut my efforts.
“Good morning,” he replied, his gaze shifting upward. As his eyes settled on my mother, a flicker of surprise and curiosity crossed his face. “Oh, it’s you. So early today?” His inquiry reflected genuine puzzlement; my visits typically occurred later in the day and certainly never in the company of another.
“Yes… actually,” I stammered, pausing momentarily before placing a tentative hand on my mother’s back, gently encouraging her forward. “My mom wants a summer haircut.” The words emerged hesitantly, imbued with an awkward sincerity. Anticipating skepticism, I quickly appended, “I know you generally specialize in men’s haircuts, but she needs it short for the summer. Would you be willing to do it?” My tone vacillated between hope and unease.
Harish’s brows furrowed as he scrutinized my mother more closely. Her hair, a cascade of thick, shoulder-length curls, framed her face with an elegance that seemed incongruous with the request at hand. She appeared visibly nervous, her hands betraying a restless fidget as she stood silently beside me. I instinctively glanced toward the street, ensuring no passersby were nearing the shop. This was an endeavor best conducted in solitude.
“Are you certain?” Harish inquired, his voice tinged with caution. His eyes darted between us as though searching for confirmation. “Does she really want a short summer haircut? Like the ones I usually give men?”
Turning to my mother, I sought any sign of hesitancy. “Mom, are you absolutely sure? Once we start, there’s no turning back. Did you really talk to Dad about this?”
She nodded with quiet resolve, her voice gentle yet firm. “Yes, Rohan. I’ve made my decision, and your father is aware. It’s just hair. It will grow back.”
Harish regarded her words with a contemplative expression before finally acquiescing. “Alright. Please have a seat,” he said, gesturing toward the imposing black leather barber chair.
My mother approached the chair with deliberate, measured steps, her movements imbued with a mix of trepidation and determination. Once seated, she adjusted her posture slightly, as if acclimating herself to the unfamiliar setting. Feeling a surge of protective instinct, I made an additional request. “Harish, could you lock the door? I don’t want anyone walking into us while you’re giving her the haircut”
He obliged with a nod, the click of the lock resounding through the quiet space. “No interruptions,” he reiterated, his tone reassuring.
Harish draped a black cape over my mother’s shoulders, securing it with practiced precision. I retreated to the waiting area, a wave of unease enveloping me as memories of my childhood surfaced unbidden. Her hair had always been a source of pride—thick, lustrous curls that seemed almost regal. Hours were spent tending to it, her words often echoing the importance of maintaining one’s appearance. And now, she was poised to relinquish it all.
“So, a summer cut. That means it will be very short. Are you prepared?” Harish’s voice broke through my reverie, the weight of his question punctuating the moment.
“I’m ready,” she affirmed, though her grip on the chair’s armrests betrayed a lingering apprehension.
The clippers roared to life, their hum reverberating through the room. My breath hitched as Harish guided them to her temple, initiating the first pass. Thick curls cascaded down her shoulder, landing unceremoniously on the cape. Her expression remained composed, though her eyes flickered briefly to the mirror, as if attempting to reconcile the unfolding transformation.
“This is quite a change,” Harish remarked, his tone light but perceptibly cautious. “Short hair can feel incredibly liberating.”
Unable to contain my curiosity, I interjected, “Are you giving her a boy cut?”
Harish’s smirk was subtle but unmistakable. “A proper summer cut,” he replied, leaving the specifics deliberately ambiguous.
With each deliberate stroke of the clippers, her hair diminished further. The pile of curls on the floor expanded, a poignant testament to the radical shift taking place. My mother’s neck and ears, previously obscured, now emerged starkly exposed. I remained transfixed, grappling with a mélange of emotions: shock, intrigue, and an unshakable curiosity regarding her motivations. Was this simply a response to the oppressive summer heat, or did it signify something more profound?
“I’ve grown tired of my hair,” she said suddenly, her voice steady yet introspective. “I want to feel light and unencumbered this summer.”
Harish’s movements were methodical as he buzzed the sides and back to a uniform length. He paused briefly to assess his progress before removing the clipper guard. The sound of the clippers resumed, their hum imbued with an almost relentless finality. With meticulous precision, Harish guided the now-guardless clippers across her scalp, reducing the hair to its shortest possible length. Each pass revealed more of her skin, the stark contrast between her pale scalp and the remaining stubble becoming increasingly pronounced. Strands of hair fell steadily, collecting on her lap and the floor in lifeless tufts.
Her reflection was tense, her lips pressed into a resolute line. Though her composure was commendable, the tension in her grip on the armrests was palpable. Harish maintained his focus, the rhythmic hum of the clippers punctuating the silence as he refined the cut with unwavering precision.
When the clippers finally ceased, an almost oppressive stillness descended. Harish stepped back, surveying his work with a discerning eye. Retrieving a soft brush, he meticulously dusted away the fine clippings from her neck and shoulders before removing the cape with a practiced flourish. The stark contrast of her transformation was fully unveiled.
Her lap bore the remnants of her once-prized curls, now rendered inert and scattered. She raised a tentative hand to her head, her fingers tracing the buzzed surface. Her expression was an intricate tapestry of surprise, curiosity, and quiet acceptance.
“It’s… different,” she remarked, her voice tinged with measured approval.
Harish nodded, his demeanor professional yet faintly triumphant. “A proper summer cut,” he declared, turning to sweep the discarded curls into oblivion.
I hastily settled the payment before we stepped into the searing sunlight. The world outside seemed momentarily suspended as passersby turned to observe her. Yet, she walked with a steadiness that defied scrutiny, her head held high. As I trailed behind, I found myself contemplating the enormity of her decision. It was an act of defiance, of liberation, of self-definition. In shedding her hair, she had, in some ineffable way, shed a burden—emerging lighter, freer, and unyieldingly herself.
