splitting hairs

Many people claim a night at the cemetery is the most scary experience, others believe true horror is when you're parents masquerade as you on shaadi.com or bharatmatrimonials.com and chat with prospective brides or grooms and later innocuously arrange a meeting at Shanti Sagar (in the south) or Moti Mahal (in the north), still others insist that Katrina Kaif's acting is the most chilling thing they have endured. There are also those who claim terrorists waiting to bomb the next door paan shop or that the sensex fell by .009 points sends them into nervous spasms, but nobody listens to them.

But true horror, unbridled, unending, kidney-exploding, bowel voiding horror is when one foolishly walks into barbershop, without realising that an India vs Australia cricket match is on. And India is batting. And Sachin Tendulkar is on strike. And your barber is down with swine flu and his three-day-old protégé, wearing a Sahara India t-shirt, smiles at you like Dr Dang in Tahelka.

After a critical examination of my mane recently on the windshield of a passing vehicle, I strolled into my neighbourhood barbershop hoping for some good clean scraping and an oil massage for my head. The television set, a 14-inch black and white, Solero, inside was blaring out an ad with SRK endorsing some skin whitening cream.

“Like he needs it,” I thought.

“I agree,” relied the psychic barber to my unpleasant surprise.

I looked around for R, my usual scraper, scalper and resident head howitzer. But R was back at home, resting in isolation, suspected swine flu could even be ebola people whispered. Later on I would say lucky him.

After the necessary adjustments to the seat, head-rest and picking a clean towel, I was ready for my shave. D, the protégé, approached me with a pair of scissors in one hand and a bottle of dettol in the other. Was destiny written already?

“Shave, shave, shave, daadi banana hain,” I cried repeatedly stabbing at the growth on my face, smiling idiotically at the same time.

“Kya banana hain daadi ko?” he twittered and began to laugh, splashing some dettol my my shirt.

And thus began the process.

First the lather. But before that, D claimed he had learnt some new methods and pulled out a box of white, ammonical cream. The hair is too long, this will soften it up a little he said. Yes indeed like feeding goats before Bakrid.

The cream was applied and rubbed into my face and washed off, incinerating my eyes and scalding my skin and the lathering began just as Yuvraj singh on the non striker end was run out.

The lather entered my nose as a furious D began uttering oaths and curses, my mother told me never to utter, whilst giving the TV the finger and I began to scream. D was also screaming and figured I supported his views on the Indian team’s dismal running between the wickets.

Commercial break. Never was I happier to see a commercial break.

The horror began. He thankfully replaced the blade with a new one and told me to stay still and submit my facials muscles completely to my will. I wish he had said the same about the afore-mentioned kidneys.

The blade weaved menacingly in his hand, a swipe there and a swish here, unable to choose between his victim and the TV, so he devoted all his attention to Solero. I could see the match in the mirror, where Dhoni is left-handed.

My life flashed before my eyes with every ball that was bowled.

“Swine, why is he swinging blindly at that ball? We just lost a wicket, should he not get his eye in,” he shouted furiously at Solero. The blade still weaved in front of my eyes, always inches away, like an adder waiting to strike.

A boundary, that moron Dhoni could he not just defend the damn ball till the shave was done.

“Manga. Manga. Manga,” D yelled, his sword hand sweeping with the umpires. This was later explained as the words he used whenever someone scored a boundary, during his formative years in UP.

Our father, who art in heav’n…, asatoma sadhgamaya…, ya allah…, mazel tov….

I shut my eyes and prayed to Gods who did not even exist up until then and promised them all gifts and a leather-bound version of Hitch-hiker’s guide to the galaxy. These were my gods remember. They do not want, coconuts, money, revenge or virgin sacrifices. They are cool gods.

But since they do not exist, D continued his swordplay as another ad began.

Strangely enough it was only during these frenetic minutes in-between the match, when SRK, the Big B, little B and the parivar spoke benevolently to us that D managed to get any shaving done.

So after 54 commercial breaks he was done and so was I. I was well done and ready to be served.