Growing up, I hated haircuts.

My late father was a faithful pastor to a small evangelical Christian church in Mannar. A congregant named Mathan owned a barber shop and offered his services free of charge for those ‘doing God’s work’. This policy covered our entire family.

On haircut day, my brother and I would cycle to Mathan uncle’s barber shop located a few hundred meters from our home. We would sit sweating patiently on uncomfortable plastic stools as he spent twenty to forty minutes painstakingly styling each ugly head ahead of us in the queue. Then our turn would come. Mathan uncle would spend barely five minutes on the two of us combined. He would set the electric clipper to ‘number naught’ and run the machine from the top of the brow and sliding it down to the nape, from the left ear to the right. On a good day, he might leave a little mop at the front and bother to shape our sideburns.

I am asthmatic and my stepmother insisted that ‘too much hair lead to chest infection’. As such I was never allowed to grow my hair beyond a quarter of an inch. My friends from school would rub my head for their stress relief, claiming that the prickly sensation from the scrubby mess was therapeutic.

My father was convinced that if he were to allow his children to go to a different barber, Mathan uncle may be disappointed and go astray in his journey to God. Even though he empathised with the fact that his dear believer was basically crapping on our heads on a monthly basis, he called on us to sacrifice our earthly desires — i.e. a half decent hair cut — so that a soul may be saved.

I was fifteen when he eventually came around to allowing me to visit a different barber shop. It took an especially disastrous hair cut and full scale rebelling from the two of us to finally break his resolve. We were to attend a family wedding the following day. My stepmother phoned and pleaded with Mathan uncle to do a proper job for once, given the circumstances, before sending us off. My brother and I returned home, our heads resembling a porcupine that had recently released its quills. We threatened to boycott the wedding unless we were allowed to find a new barber.

*

A hair cut in the north tends to be Rs. 150 - Rs. 200 cheaper than in Colombo.

I decided to take advantage of the above noted economic reality when I happened to be in Jaffna a few months back.

My regular saloon at Muthirai Chanthi (Point Pedro Road-Chemmani Road junction) in Nallur was closed that day. Disappointed, I pedaled my way via 1st Cross Street to a barber shop on Navalar Road that I had registered many times but never attended.

A welding workshop slash bicycle repair shop and a tailoring booth stood adjacent to the saloon as part of a single roof, multi-colored complex. As I parked my bicycle on the leading concrete pavement, the blue painted Vijayan Saloon appeared lifeless despite its door being open. The two work benches visible through the open door were unmanned. I wanted to double check that Mr. Vijayan was not loitering inside the rather dark and dingy space and took a few tentative steps towards the shop.

A dark, short, thin, bearded man who was patching up a bicycle tyre inside the neighbouring workshop got up from his squat, laid down whatever tool he was fiddling with, and walked towards me.

‘Come in,’ he smiled as he rubbed both his palms on his grease stained denim jeans. His hands looked exactly like he had spent his entire morning patching up bicycle tyre tubes. I caught the whiff of a strong scent — a heady mix of machine oil, kerosene, and manly sweat.

It was now too late to turn back. There was no way I could decline the invitation without appearing as an external-cleanliness-obsessed, classiest, casteist prick. Woke millennial instincts won the day and I obliged, hoping he would wash his hands before starting.

Vijayan gave me the full routine: hair cut, beard trim, and a complimentary head massage. I sensed my scalp progressively thickening with dirt as he applied Axe oil and rubbed the living keratin out of every strand of my hair. Vijayan, of course, never bothered washing his hands before starting on me. He treated my head like the deflated bicycle tyre it is.

I washed my hair and head with Vim upon returning home and cried myself to sleep.

*

The climax of a haircut routine, for me, is the head massage.

You get to pick your choice of stimulant: Navaratna oil (an Indian hair oil brand that became a thing in mid-2000s after its popular Jill Jill . . . Cool Cool . . . commercials featuring Sharukh Khan, Surya, and the like), Axe oil (which has been around for ever and a home remedy for a variety of ailments including diabetes), or the mysterious herbal hair tonic called Bayrum. More recently I have increasingly noticed a green liquid concoction claiming to be made out of ‘100% natural Fenugreek seeds’. The function of the liquid is simply chilling your head down.

Depending on your location in Sri Lanka and whether you’re at a salon or a saloon, a head massage might cost you anywhere between Rs. 200 to Rs. 1000. And conditioned on the same factors and whether your barber gives a damn or not, the delicate methodology and duration of the ritual also tend to vary greatly.

Some barbers do too much; others too little. Some apply too much force; others handle you like flower.The ones who over do it, try to crack open your skull with bare hands, might reach your man boobs from behind, and push you off the workbench as they press your back all the way down to bums. The ones who offer too little, pat your front lobe for a few minutes and demand five hundred rupees.

The ideal head massage, a rare commodity, lasts for ten to fifteen minutes, covers the head and shoulders, and ends with a sweet, thunderous cracking of the neck. Barbers worth their salt would never let you leave unless and until they hear that cracking sound.

My regular barber shop in Mount Lavinia is owned by a highly skilled middle aged Upcountry Tamil. He is an expert neck cracker who would put every white chiropractic practitioner to shame.

On a rainy evening last week, I had my latest haircut from him. Music playing in the background switched through many of my Illayaraja favourites — Ilaya Nila, Mandram Vantha, Sunthari. Just as he was finishing up with the head massage, the cheap Chinese JBL sound system started playing Maasi Maasam Aalana Ponnu, a Tamil duet from early 90s that is a regular feature of every midnight masala show across Tamil radio and television channels. Maestro Illayaraja composed the soothing melody for the highly sexually charged lyrics. The song features the divine voices of K. J. Yesudas and Swarnalatha while visuals feature a young Rajnikanth getting all steamy with the beautiful Gouthamy in a horse stable of all places.

The song begins and ends with the female softly screaming ‘ssss . . . aaah’ four times in a row. Anna cracked my neck just as Swarnalatha was going through her ending ‘ssss . . . . aaah’ set. I just about stopped myself from echoing her scream.

*

My girlfriend was seated opposite me at the round restaurant table. She was glowing in the candle light. After placing our dinner order, she twinkled expectantly at me.

I instinctively realised that I am supposed to notice something about her.

I scanned all that was visible. Dress, familiar. Watch, familiar. Handbag, familiar. Face, definitely seen that before.

‘New lipstick shade?’ I ventured out, projecting the wild impression that I had noticed the subtlest detail.

She shot back a passive-aggressive eye roll.

I sniffed at the air around me. ‘Is that a new cologne?’ I said, this time a lot less self-assured.

Rest of her face joined in as the eye roll transformed into a distinct scowl. ‘I cut my hair after months!’

She had spent a few thousand bucks and a few hours on this transformation at a Colombo salon that evening. Hair, of course, looked exactly as it had appeared last night. I would have noticed nothing with a Vernier caliper in my hand.