Hello Friends and Fellow Travellers,
I trust this finds you in spectacular spirits!
This week, we take a break from the extraordinary, to head into Kathmandu town for a quick trim.
Join me as we discover how even a simple trip to the barber can turn into an adventure!
The Haircut.
The Sharp Edge of Uncertainty.
Time for a Trim.
Feeling plagued by bad hair days and tired of hiding under my baseball cap, I wander into town with the intention of a haircut. There is a little alcove off the Main Street with a couple of barber chairs facing a long, wide mirror. A cheeky looking barber has always smiled and offered the greeting of 'Namaste' each time I walk past, so I figure even if the haircut is bad, the experience should be nice enough.
As I arrive, I notice that my barber friend is absent, replaced by a group of young men, some look a little dubious and rough around the edges. One is giving another a shave. He catches my eye.
“You want haircut?” he asks.
Surrounded by these edgy-looking youths, I don’t feel comfortable.
“I'll come back when you're not so busy.”
“No busy, ready for you now,” he insists.
Damn.
“OK.” I say, reluctantly.
To my relief, most of the kids clear out of the alcove, making some space. While I wait for him to finish shaving his friend, I glance at the pictures of satisfied clients pinned above the mirror. Some sport sharp, trendy haircuts with shaved-in designs, others are spikey, dyed in vivid bright colours.
Maybe this is exactly what I need to give me an edgier look, but I don’t want to end up looking like a startled parrot!
In the Barber's Chair.
With the shave now completed, the young barber turns his attention to me. He unceremoniously wets my hair with a spray bottle and just starts cutting without a word. I try to catch his eye, but he's engrossed in his phone which dings every few seconds with new text messages. I decide to surrender to the situation and let him do his thing. In the worst-case scenario, I will get it all cut off and sport a monk's buzz cut.
He snips away at one side for a while, though the dinging phone seems to get more attention than my hair. The scissors snip-snap at quite a pace, sending clumps of hair flying around. The suspicious-looking young men have returned. I keep my eye on my bag, which is off to one side.
Finally, the young barber turns to me.
“You like this side? I make other side same?” he asks.
I think that symmetry is a good option, and although it was shorter than I would have asked for, he hasn’t done a bad job.
“Yep, same please.”
He combs my long hair over my eyes, obstructing my vision. Anxiety grips me as I worry his friends might seize the opportunity to grab my bag. Peering through the thick strands of wet hair, I keep a vigilant watch on my bag tucked in the corner.
Rising Tensions.
As he prepares to trim the other side, his phone rings. He answers it, and the conversation quickly escalates. The person on the other end is clearly upset, and my barber becomes very defensive.
There is shouting.
There is commotion.
There is hair in my eyes, but I can just see my bag.
A street dog has arrived and is barking at the barber, who is barking into his phone.
I'm not entirely sure, but it seems some of the young men have left, and new ones have arrived.
This is a really intense haircut.
As the phone conversation reaches fever pitch, I push the hair out of my eyes. This may go on for a while.
I notice a mirror positioned behind me, angled to reflect the top of my head. I don’t think I have ever seen the top of my head before.
No bald spot.
That's comforting.
After a long while, the phone conversation finally resolves, and my barber has calmed down significantly, which bodes well for the outcome of my new hairstyle. He has matched the sides, and from the neatly positioned mirror behind, I see that he's done a pretty nifty cut on the back.
Ok, just the top to go.
“How long?” he asks, pulling my hair up from the crown.
Surprised that I get some input, I show him about an inch with my thumb and finger. That's all the info he needs, and he swiftly goes to work.
It's amazing how he can cut so fast without even looking.
As the haircut draws to a close, I'm impressed that it actually looks pretty sharp – so sharp in fact, that by comparison my beard looks wild and dishevelled.
“You want beard trim?” he asks.
“Yep, go for it, but leave the moustache, I want to grow it long.”
I've always wanted to try a twirly moustache, though I’m not quite sure why. The only people who can successfully pull off a twirly moustache are Salvador Dali and circus ringmasters. That says something about twirly moustaches I suppose, but I'm not sure what.
Surprise Services.
The beard trim turns out to be even more chaotic than the haircut. He's not looking at all, preferring to chat with his coming and going friends. Whiskers fly into my eyes and mouth. He pays no attention, and my beard is looking a bit lopsided – but at least my bag is safe.
Suddenly, my barber reaches for a tube on the top shelf and squeezes some thick, orange-colored cream onto his hand. I assume he's going to use it to clean shave the edges, but instead, he slathers it all over my face. The cream smells bad, and has a weird sticky texture. As he starts to rub it into my skin, he asks one of his friends to pull the curtain closed, blocking the view from the street.
This is it, I think to myself – this is when they go for my bag.
The intrepid barber unlocks a low cupboard and starts rifling through it. In my mind's eye, he's about to pull out a cut-throat razor and demand my wallet. Why else would they have pulled the curtain closed?
It's amazing the games the mind can play when you’re surrounded by suspicious-looking strangers with sticky orange goop all over your face.
Gadget of Discomfort.
But instead of a cut-throat razor, he produces a strange looking plastic object – it looks a bit like a nail gun.
He plugs it into the wall and turns it on.
It makes a loud humming sound.
He presses the vibrating end against my face and moves it in small circles. It tickles like mad, and the buzzing is loud in my ear. I can’t fully grasp what’s happening, but it seems to be some kind of antiquated electric massage device. Apparently, it has two settings. The current setting is rather uncomfortable, but when he shifts it into overdrive, it becomes downright painful – especially when he pushes it into my forehead. Which he does – a lot.
After a few minutes of torture, the vibrating device goes back into the cupboard which he locks again. Clearly, this gadget is highly valued.
He gives me a quick wipe down with a cold, wet cloth, and just like that, the adventure is over.
The young barber tallies up the price, and surprisingly, the most expensive part of the ordeal was the unrequested face massage. If only I'd known to stop him before it began. He flings the curtain to the street back open, and I stumble out with a fairly sharp-looking haircut, a slightly lopsided beard, and an aching face.
Just as I am about to leave, the barber calls out …
“Hey, don’t forget your bag!”
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Wishing you a week filled with curiosity, enlightening conversations, and unexpected insights!
✌️❤️
Grant.
Wondering Where to go Next?
Take a Sensory Stroll into the Heart and Soul of Kathmandu Town!
Still a mystery why the secrets of face massage needed to be hidden from view.
Put me right in the barber's seat! And you were still looking handsome and manicured when were were chatting in Pokhara. :-) I love how you bring the arts of practice into every day life. Such a wonderful way to be.