A fortnight back I had the ignominy of being awarded the wooden spoon at a golf tournament. I was given a voucher for a free hair styling. The voucher wasn’t valid and warned that I must proceed with appointment.
I was overawed by the opulence of the area as I entered the assumptions. The woman at the reception gave me a smile of welcome that vanished when she realized I wasn’t a customer. She explained that a hair care advisor would review my’situation’. Some minutes later a guy in a shower cap on his head and a white coat came and introduced himself barber shop open on sunday. By now I was suffering stress pangs believing that I had been in a hospital rather than a glorified barber shop. I made to sit on something that seemed straight out of a practice and was taken to a cottage.
The expert examined my pate and said in a patronizing voice I would need Keratin hair treatment followed after by shampoo treatment and blow-dry. He added he would throw in a 3 minute scalp massage which would increase blood flow to the head to promote healthy hair and relieve tension and reduce stress. Who was I?
Life was easier in my days. After per month a barber would come to our home on his bike with a little steel case fixed on the carrier. I’d sit on a metal seat on our back lawn and my dad would offer an aged white bed sheet for being wrapped around me. The instruction to the barber are that I should become a cut. The rate was 50 paise for kids. As I grew into my early teens I tried my best to convince the barber to bring some style and rebelled against looking like a plucked chicken. To no avail. It was embarrassing to go to school with my head’s sides in shades of green.