My Experience With T and G
The story, all names, characters, and incidents portrayed in this article are fictitious. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, companies, business entities and products is intended or should be inferred. This article is meant for entertainment purposes only and I do not intend to hurt the sentiments of any individual, community, sect or religion.
I usually go to a barbershop on the corner. The owner looks like a thug, and the barbers are all from NE speaking a combination of Hindi, Bengali and Oriya. The owner always plays Hindi music. The topics of discussion during the haircut are politics, property and who was sleeping with who. The barbers seem to know everything that is happening in the neighborhood, the city, and the country.
One day, my wife was teasing me that I was going to a salon that was 'below' my level. With a lot of reluctance, I agreed to visit a T&G salon near my house. I usually walk to the barbershop. But you cannot do that when you visit T&G. So I had to drive, even though, it was within walking distance.
When I entered the salon, a beautiful girl speaking perfect English gave me a menu card from which I had to choose a haircut. Option one was executed by an "Executive'. Option 2 by a 'Director', and option 3 by a 'President'. When I asked what the differences were, I was given a pitying stare, scoffed at, and told that the styling is different and each of the 'Executives' was specialized. When I saw the rates my heart skipped a beat. The minimum haircut was 1000!
Anyhow, I opted for a lowly Executive. She shook her head sadly and asked me if I was absolutely sure. I nodded with an even more sinking heart wondering if I was going to be robbed or something. I was then informed the 'Executive' was busy and I have to wait for some 30 minutes. She asked me to proceed to a waiting room. I was led to the room through passageways that had dim lighting and scented candles on the floor. ‘Soothing’ music was playing. To me, it sounded like a funeral march.
My usher led me to a room that had a large water tub and a bed! He asked me to sit on the bed and wait. I was getting even more jittery. A bed for a haircut? In any case, after a few minutes, an NE guy with slanty eyes entered with a large smile on his face. He asked me to lie down on the bed so he could ‘prepare’ my hair for the haircut. Sounded like getting a goat ready for the guillotine, I thought. He meddled around with my hair for some time, gave some kind of dry massage, and then asked me to loosen the top few buttons of my shirt and turn over. He continued with his dry massage of my shoulder and neck. As his hands wandered lower and lower on my body, I was getting more and more jittery. Then came the clincher.
'I usually do not do this, but with you, I want to give the full treatment. Please take off your shirt', he said. When I looked at him he had a distinct homo leer on his face. Before he advanced to other parts of my dress, I decided, I have had enough. I quickly sat up and asked him to check whether 'my' Executive was ready. Very disappointed, he went off and returned a few minutes later saying the Executive was waiting for me.
I went to a well-appointed hall where the Executive was a handsome young man wearing all black. It was a co-ed salon where the hair and both men and women were chopped off without any mercy.
I sat in the electrocutioner's chair wondering what was next. The Executive arranged all his tools of the trade and gazed at my hair for a few minutes. I was warming up, thinking I am going to be praised for the way I maintained my hair. Fat chance! With a sad look on his face, he asked me how long has it been since I washed and groomed my hair. Now, washing I do at least 2 or 3 times a month. But, grooming? I had no idea what he was talking about. Do men groom their hair? I don’t even comb my hair. I just run my fingers through my hair after a bath. When I gave my answer, his face took on the looks of a man who has just returned after cremating his pet dog.
'You must come here every 15 days for the next six months' he said. Scratching my head, I asked what for? 'Your hair is dead', he said, 'and I am the only one who can breathe life into it again'. A thousand stupid questions flashed through my mind. Rs.12,000 to give life to my hair? It can stay dead I thought. 'What if you are not here when I come', I asked, thinking I was brilliant and will stump him. Again, no chance. He beckoned the beautiful girl from the front desk and gave her precise instructions to book my appointment for the next 6 months and to ensure that only he attends to me.
There goes my 12K, I thought. But worse, will the NE guy try to make a pass at me 12 times? Wow! That is like having the cake and eating it too. 'Just wait till I exit from this place, man' I thought to myself. I will go home, change my phone number, sell my house, and even shift from the city. But I will not step into this place again.
Usually, when I have a haircut, I sit on a chair and doze off. My regular barber chops my hair off in 10 odd minutes, wakes me up, grabs my money and sends me off packing. Here, when I woke up after 15 odd minutes, my 'dead' hair continued to stay dead on my head. This guy had not even started to cut my hair. He had wandered off to help another executive. When I looked around, he came buzzing to my chair and restarted his admonishments. I bore further torture to my 'dead' hair for about 30 odd minutes, with the Executive constantly going - tsk, tsk. He would pick a few strands, gaze at them with pity in his eyes, and use his scissors as if my hair was some gold thread or something. 'It is just my bloody hair, cut the damn thing, boy', I wanted to scream.
Finally, my visit to the torture chamber came to an end. The girl at the front desk looked gleefully at my card and wondered why I was in a hurry to leave. 'We have many other services that I am sure you will enjoy' she pleaded. I was thinking that this was my turn to say 'fat chance'. I kept shaking my head till she reluctantly swiped my card and charged me 1500. The additional 500 was for getting my hair ready for the torture, narrowly missing getting a pass made, and the shoulder massage. By then I was desperate to escape from the place. I quietly signed the charge slip and scooted home.
When I reached home, I narrated the incident to my wife. She promptly wrote a precis and shared it with all and sundry. I think I remember her spending the first half of that fateful Sunday calling everyone to narrate the story. In no time, I became the butt of jokes amongst family and friends - ‘Here comes T&G Venkat’. ‘Are you sure it was not T & Gay?’ ‘Ooooh, look at Venkat’s hair, it shines so much’. Those were the decent ones I heard. I dread to think what they said behind my back.
T&G called me on the 14th day reminding me of the appointment. I told them they have the wrong number and that my name was Joseph Aslam Guruswamy. Let them try to figure that one out. I needed some small victory in this war over my 'dead' hair and my dignity. I would rather face the thug and his army from the NE any day. They are more professional and charge me a comfortable 110.