Tonsorial advice

As I get older, I ponder on the things that comfort. Some may seek solace in the early hours by secretly raiding the fridge and burying their faces in Tres Leches, while some may go shopping. I prefer the luxurious comfort of an old-fashioned Men's barber shop. My pleasures are purely tonsorial. I have long searched for the perfect barber shop in San Antonio. A place where men can be men without being abashed. Instead, I have been subject to awfulness.

I have had my head mauled about by fancy hairdressers in poncy saloons, while they seek my opinion on some actress or television star. As if I know! I pretend that I am interested, and I get a headache. But worse than the idle chatter are the solicitous questions on what size of implement I want used on my head. "Would you like a number 4 or 3 on your sides? What about a 2 on top" I almost scream out hysterically "Yes! Maybe a size three on my temporal lobes, and perhaps a five on my parietal cortical region? Could you make sure to use size five-and-quarter in the region around my superior temporal gyrus, around Brodmann's Area 41, but sparing Area 42, for which I would like you to use a size five-and-one-fifths..."

You can imagine the froth forming around my lips, and my wide staring eyes as I tried to understand what instrument she was referring to and what size. I had not the faintest idea. Why was this awful and beastly woman asking me such searching personal questions?

I was raised in India and Sri Lanka in a totally different manner. Every first Saturday of the month, my father would drag me off to the barber shop, and silently point to the chair. He would bark "short!" to the barber. My father never tipped and so the barber would fall upon the job with savage pleasure, performing the worst ever haircut imaginable. My father did not care about aesthetics. All he wanted was a substantial reduction in length. Maximum cut for the buck, so to speak. He stood glowering over my head the whole time, inspecting it like the lawns in front of India Gate, silently pointing out to the barber the bits he wanted taken off. I walked out looking like a badly plucked chicken. That is how I was raised. To take it like it was, and not let out a word of protest.

Thus, I abhor syrupy solicitousness in the barber's chair. I do not require the barber to inquire how to wield her instrument or in what manner. Nor do I wish her to talk about film actresses or television stars and their divorces. I merely wish her to tonsure. I would prefer her to be a man, but failing that I would prefer her to simply tonsure.

As compensation for the appalling haircut, which my parents admired as if it was the work of Rembrandt, I was allowed an extra cup of tea on my return before I was despatched to the bath. Traditional and conservative Indians think that a freshly shaven head is "inauspicious" and "dirty" because of all the loose bits of hair that float about. Therefore, you cannot contaminate the house upon entering after a haircut, and must rush into the bath. But my parents were very modern, very kind and loving. They allowed me a cup of tea before rudely pushing me into the bath. That cup of tea after a haircut is something that I religiously partake in, even today.

A certain etiquette must be maintained in Barber shops. Much like the etiquette in a Men's Restroom, where no one says a word to anyone, pretending that they are all alone among the expanse of urinals and stalls. If one must acknowledge one's brethren, then it may be done with a sidelong glance and a grunt. In a barber shop a little more leeway is granted. The barber may speak, but the tonsured cannot say anything other than letting out the occasional grunt. I will go so far as to say that only a monosyllabic grunt is permitted. Polysyllabic grunts would be considered as being garrulous.

Anyway, to the joyful news which I must convey. I finally discovered the perfect Men's Barber Shop in San Antonio. It is perfect, like prime numbers. Pure, unspoiled, incapable of corruption, and any sort of division. Perfect. It is located in the basement of the Sheraton Gunter Hotel in Downtown San Antonio. It boasts of being the oldest barber shop in San Antonio.

It is referred to as "The Barber Shop". No extravagant naming is necessary. Simplicity is the sign of elegance. Everything good began right away, as if my road to bliss was covered in rose petals. I drove up to the lobby of the hotel and got out of my car, and announced rather grandly to the valet "Barber shop!" and he nodded courteously and parked my car for free.

Then I walked in and saw pictures of the old barber's chairs. They were made of ceramic. Ceramic! The place smelt of various unguents, hair restoratives, shaving cream, and leather. It gave me goose bumps. I had arrived at the Vatican of Barber Shops. This was the center of Barberdom in the civilized world. And most happily, it was free of women blabbering about television stars and asking searching personal questions.

I was courteously escorted to the chair by a most soothing Barber, and seated as if I was the Emperor Shah Jahan, on the Peacock Throne. And then he stood before me in silence, waiting for orders. I looked up and remembered my mis-spent youth, and said one word, "Short!" He bowed his head deferentially and murmured "of course". After which I sat back and listened to the Barber expounding on etymology, about the primitive tribes of the world, about the history of San Antonio, the railways, atomic weapons, and so on. I like my Barber to be erudite. And he was gratifyingly so. I had to say nothing except to lean back in the chair, lift my chin while he soothingly lathered and shaved. This was as it should be. God's in His heaven, and all's right with the world.

When he showed me the mirror I grunted, and he beamed in appreciation and pleasure at my generous praise. I gave him a 50% tip. No human being on earth deserved more than he did. I had barely said a word, quite literally.

If there is heaven on earth, then I suggest that it is located in the basement of the Gunter Sheraton in Downtown San Antonio. Please do visit. Men may here luxuriate! And may I suggest? Do leave the women and children at home.

It is said that men communicate in grunts and snorts. I think that it may be a somewhat pejorative statement. I would like to offer a compromise. Men have actually a much greater vocabulary than mere grunts. They include two words "short" and "medium". These are to be employed in a Barber Shop, with the attendant benefits.

Enjoy your enhanced vocabulary men! Sit back and be pampered as only men may understand. In the Gunter Sheraton, in Downtown San Antonio.