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Operation Barbarossa was the code name Hitler gave to his disastrous invasion of Russia.
This blog is NOT about it (am I mad?)
This is all about barbers (and Jews).
Unlike my father, and my son, I hate haircuts and malish (massage).
In my childhood in the late 1940s there were no barber shops in our village. One fine morning, without any warning, our barber would materialize at our front-yard; he had the nickname "Royal Barber" (that is another story).
On spying him I used to run and hide behind the door. And Father would tease me out and drag me to our backyard.
And the barber would sit down on his haunches and open his 'quiver'...the name for his toolkit in Telugu (పొది) happens to be the same as the receptacle where archers keep their weaponry.
That metal box revealed two scissors (the bigger one for the head and the smaller for the mustache) and two combs pari passu; and a razor (actually a kitchen-knife), and a leather strop for honing it...chuck chuck chuck;...all of them frightful.
Our barber brought no cloth-sheet to cover his customers' bodies.
So I was stripped naked but for a cod piece to cover my shame.
And was made to sit down on a low wooden stool.
And I would cry aloud.
First thing the barber did was to ask me to stop whining. And I was scared and used to stop crying but simply moan with hiccups. And that would shake my head and he gave a gentle clout on it with the back of his comb.
And he would go about with his scissor-work. In between two spells he would hold his scissors high up in the air and shave it several times click click click...that was perhaps practice for his next attack (actually I guess it was for clearing my precious hair sticking to his weapon).
During that interval I would move a bit thinking all was over. And would get another clout. And he would keep on asking me not to move my head...both his hands being too busy to hold it down firmly.
And I couldn't; however much I tried...and I would get a nick or two on my neck hurting me enough to stop moving.
And so on and so forth...
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When I shifted to Vizagh for my university studies, this business of home-coming barbers got over, and I discovered the "Royal Hair Cutting Saloon" near our home.
And my first visit to it was stunning.
It had mirrors nailed to its opposite walls showing an infinite array of disfigured images I read in my school final Science Text...but never saw earlier...seeing being believing.
And seats that could go up or down depending on the height of the customer.
And its walls were lined with seminude pictures of Marylin Monroe and Brigette Bardot that I couldn't figure out why.
And it had a rectangular framed picture of a dozen 'hair-styles' with names like 'soldier-cut', 'sailor cut', written below them.
No way you could choose one of them and ask for it...your head comes with its own 'genetic cut'.
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When I moved to IIT Kharagpur I was told to avoid its local barbers but go to the "South Institute" ( Railway Club of sorts) which housed a majestic hair-cutting saloon (much like Vizagh's) but charged double the rates.
Since I used to avoid hair-cutting till complaints came from friends, I didn't mind the extra cost...the experience was pleasant...the barbers there had chairs movable not only up and down but also turnable by 360...or even 720 degrees.
That went on for almost three decades.
And one day I was told that the barber brothers manning it had a terrific fight between themselves (probably a drunken brawl) and smashed all their mirrors, chairs, tables, and each other's heads maybe...and that outlet got closed and converted into a mini-bar.
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And then I moved to Hyderabad after my retirement and wrote all of 50 blogs that have 'barber' in them:
https://www.blogger.com/blog/posts/490857344501208483?q=barber
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To be Continued...
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