Thursday 23 March 2017

Belonged!

     If I were to ask you to make a list of acts that you would consider to be very intimate, what all would you put down in the list? You would, perhaps, most definitely put down sex. Well, sex might make it sound crude, and so let us say the act of making love. You would also, perhaps, put down the kiss. Then, perhaps, the warm hug. For a lot of us, the list would, more or less, end there. But, would you laugh at me if I said that the act of someone running their fingers through my hair would be an act of intimacy for me? Probably. Probably not. Eitherway, it does not matter, because the list is mine.

     It has been over a month and a half since I got my hair cut (In fact, it's just a week short of two months). They've grown too much and now its difficult for me to handle them. The last time I had gotten it cut, she had said, "why are you so obsessed with cutting non-existent hair?" Ans so I had said, "okay, next time i'll get it cut only when you ask me to." Funnily enough, that will never happen. But, that is a different story for a different time. So, yeah, they've grown so much that I find it hard to handle them. And so, here I am now, in the barber's shop.

     The barber is a young fellow. Probably of my age or a little older. I like him. I've got my hair cut by him a couple of times, earlier.. I don't know his name, though. Why do I like him? maybe because he is almost of my age and therefore will know the kind of hairstyle that would suit me. Also, I like him for a fact that he is quite sarcastic and on-the-face types. But, still I do not know his name.

     Anyway, I sit on the 'hot-seat' and tell him how I want my hair cut. He sets about his business and starts off with the spray of cold water. As he starts cutting my hair, I realise that he is struggling with a bad case of the common cold. He coughs intermittently and. grossly enough, without bothering to cover his mouth. The Lifebuoy ad starts playing in my head everytime he coughs (I can picture the animated germs flying out of his mouth).  But I do not say anything. I never say anything, anyway. After a while, someone brings a packed of friend fish wrapped in a sheet of newspaper. But before I could see what was brought in, I saw, in the mirror, the boy's face light up in pure joy. It would not be exaggeration if I said that I haven't seen such pure joy on anybody's face in a long, long time. He immediately reaches for the packet and I cringe in my seat. First the cough, and now the hands full of meat traces. Luckily, before he could completely bury his hands into the fish fry, the boss barber shouts at him and asks him to get back to work. Disappointment replaces joy as he returns to groom my hair. What also returns is his cough. Every 2 minutes or so, he coughs and I instantaneously cringe. I try hard to not make it evident, lest i hurt his feelings. 

     While he went about his business of cutting my hair (and coughing), I realised that the way the comb felt, when it brushed my hair, felt very good! Heights of desperation, you say? Guilty as charged, i'll say (I have tried combing my hair hoping to feel good, but it just never worked). I say it again-it felt really good. And that is when the light bulb flashed in my head. I pitied and hated myself simultaneously for thinking that way. I thought, "why not get a head massage?" If the comb running though my hair could feel this good, imagine how good human fingers could feel!

     And so, I go on to ask him to give me a head massage. I think he is pissed a little because he says, "itna kaafi hoga na? Paise bahut lagega." (Inn't this much enough? It is going to cost you more) I pretend like I have a bad headache and say, "chalega." (That is okay) He then goes and gets packets of Navratna Thanda, Thanda, Cool, Cool oil. By now, I have, like always and with everything, mentally imagined how relaxing it is going to be. He starts off. The starting isn't anywhere close to what I had imagined. As always. And within a few seconds into the massage, I've realised that he sucks at it. Sigh. Disappointment here also. 

     But then, out of nowhere, he asks, "bahut darad kar raha hai kya?" (Is it hurting a lot?) I nod. And, with my eyes closed, i try fooling my mind into believing that the massage felt awesome. That it was someone whom I loved and who loved me back who was running her fingers through my hair telling me, "it's okay, I am here for you." I try fooling my mind into believing that I am perfectly fine and happy, and not lonely at all. All this while he beat my head with the cliched massage techniques. 

Okay, this is where you either gross out or have a tear in your eye. 

     Anyway, after about 10 minutes, he stops and I am relieved. I am, by now, disgusted with my desperation (and not to mention, the sucky massage).He takes some newspaper and wipes it on my face! And id all the gross-ity wasn't enough, my face now looks oily and smudged with black sooty colour from the newspaper. But, as ever, I say nothing. 

     There is more to come. One week later, I was going to find out that I have been contaminated and am down with a bad cold. Was that because of him or was it a co-incidence, I will never know. Also, I will have to visit another barber very soon because he hadn't cut it right.
     Oh what the heck! Who cares? I felt belonged. So, it's okay, I guess. 

     

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