The Prodigal Customer (a.k.a Hair Yesterday, Gone Today)

(Warning: Long post, but I had a lot of fun writing this!)

The tremors vibrating through his entire body became more and more evident the closer he came to his final destination. It had been a whopping four hundred and eighty one days since his last visit, and he was well aware of the fact that the day of reckoning had finally arrived.

An arbit converation on gtalk, a split second decision and barely twenty minutes later, he had borrowed the keys to his sister's Honda Activa and was well on his way to get the job done. Although he did have his moments of reservation towards doing the act that he was about to undertake, the cumulative good that arose out of the act was, he was hoping, something that would provide him with greater long-term pleasure and satisfaction vis-à-vis the ephemeral accolades and not so unwanted or unwarranted attention that he received for his present condition.

His constant companion for all seasons was playing music in his ears, as he donned the helmet and began the eight kilometer journey, the melodious strains of classic rock of the yesteryears giving him apt company on his ride.

After a couple of near death experiences on the road in Mysore while on his way, he was about half a kilometer from where he was headed out for. Shaking his head with a disdainful sigh and feeling much older than his current 24+ years, he lamented to himself about the state of affairs in his city, with the pathetic road manners of Bangaloreans being transfused into the veins of Mysore motorists, as a result of which he had to endure the aforesaid near-misses in his own backyard.

His morose plight was remedied to a substantial extent by B J Thomas' 'raindrops keep falling on my head', and his lugubrious state of mind was replaced by one of mild terror, as he stopped the vehicle, turned off the ignition and removed his helmet.

The name of the place had changed from 'New Elite Hair Dressers' to simply 'Elite Hair Dressers' in the 18 months since he had been there last, and he then started wondering what else it was that had changed with time, since he last had a haircut.

Had they started using garden shears now? Did they use talcum powder that he was allergic to, that would cause him to have sneezing fits for the next one week? Did they have hot lady barbers who would provide him with a massage if he asked for one? (oil massage for the head, you perverted cretin!) Did this place also sell out like some other barber shops that he had been to, by shaving armpits of some customers that wanted the said service rendered unto them?

As his mind was overflowing to the brim with these thoughts, he had parked the vehicle and was striding purposefully towards the saloon, his long hair curled up and bouncing off his shoulders for the very last time in a long time to come, as he removed the black hairband (he'd flicked it from a good friend of his who was going to receive a whole lotta good Karma for her generous gesture) that tied them together in a neat ponytail and shook the locks loose in a manner not unlike he'd seen Perizaad Zorabian, Andie McDowell, Jennifer Connelly and Robert Plant do, either in advertisements or in movies or music videos where they were required to seduce someone.

He was sad at the thought of crossing over from their territory into one that was ruled by the likes of Pritish Nandy, the late Amrish Puri, Samuel L Jackson, Sinead O'Connor, Uma Bharathi and a whole host of liberated bra-burning crazy ass feminists (who wanted to be Amazons but were too chicken to mutilate their bosoms) but he hoped fervently that the crossover would augur well with the side he no longer played for (not Robert Plant and such, but more along the lines of Perizaad and the rest!).

With his unshaven look, and his hair, it wasn't high time before someone mistook him for Himmesh and hounded him for autographs, which was why he hadn't been wearing protective headgear even in an oppressive winter, the cold adding to his list of near-death experiences every time he ventured out from an enclosed building, and this was another situation that needed to be remedied at the earliest possible.

Just at that very moment, when he was five metres from the door of the saloon he was so purposefully striding towards, a strong gust of wind blew in the air, and for the very last time, yet again, he managed to shake his head and prevent the offending strands of hair that had grown so long near his forehead from curling up and poking him in the eyes from along the corners of the spectacles that he was wearing. His hair, like the answer, was blowing in the wind for the very last time.

"To hell with New Year's resolutions", he thought, and after having had a haircut on 31st August 2006 at the hands of an obliging friend at the basement of a service apartment block in Oslo, he finally entered the hallowed grounds of a barbershop.

As soon as he got in, the four barbers and their four customers stopped for a minute and glanced towards him, shocked at what they saw. It was a rare opportunity for the barbers to have had a Rip Van Winkle moment, and even rarer for the customers to do so themselves, and hence they savoured it and milked it for as long as it could last.

What followed next is a conversation that is best described as some sort of a dialogue between the protagonist of this piece and the people at the saloon.

Barber: Yes, what you are wanting here?

Him: Haircut, sir.

B: Oh okay. You don't come here for so long and now you want us to cut your hair, eh?

H: (feeling very much like an errant pupil being admonished by the school headmaster) Sorry, I forgot.

B: Forgot?? Forgot?? Did you forget to brush your teeth? Did you forget to take a dump? Did you forget to pay your credit card bill?? Did you forget all the good times you had at the Miami beach party during Spring break 2004 with CJ??

H: Spring Break? I'm an engineer from Mysore who works in an IT firm in Bangalore. I don't know what that means. But I do know who CJ is, I see Baywatch!

B: Idiot! Don't change subject! Be glad that we're cutting your hair, after all that you've done!

H: Please give me a haircut, I am sorry.

B: (mellowing down considerably after receiving the apology) Ok ok, come and sit in the chair. I will now proceed to cut your hair. Don't give me that contumelious stare, or I will tear up the clothes that you wear.

The barber then turned the chair around, whipped out his camera phone, and with considerable fanfare, invited the boy from the neighbouring tea stall to take a picture of all the barbers with the protagonist sitting in the chair. After the obligatory photo-op, he proceeded with his business of cutting hair, and after a span of twenty minutes, he'd finished his job, and our protagonist's head was feeling considerably lighter, literally and not from having any substances infused within his blood stream.

B: (smiling indulgently) Will you ever make the mistake of not coming here regularly?

H: (with tears of gratitude streaming down his bespectaled eyes) I am sorry for my mistake, I promise never to have hair longer than twelve centimeters on my head, unless I want my pseudo-rockstar junkie look ever again!

B: (having tears in his eyes as well) I am glad you have seen the error of your ways. (pointing to a pile of hair on the floor) See! All this hair is from your head. It is more sizeable than the amount of hair cut from all our customers all of this week!

The barber then motioned to the tea stall boy again, and as the protagonist had an overwhelming sense of déjà vu encompass him all over again, the staff of the barbershop stood around his chair for an 'after' shot.
The prodigal customer then bade the barbers of the 'Elite Hair Dressers Saloon' goodbye and went home to shock the living daylights out of his family.

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Epilogue: (Twenty eight hours later)
He slept last night with much difficulty, as the feeling of bare skin on the back of his neck getting in contact with the pillow was something he had to get used to.

He still manages to headbang to the Spice Girls and Take That, for the realization of his locks of hair having gone completely hasn't yet set in.

He shakes his head involuntarily, trying to get his hair to sit into shape, only to realize with a sigh that such an effort is no longer warranted.

Less soap, less shampoo, less bath time, less time to dry hair and family happy at not having to see a vagabond in their midst are the top five reasons (in that order) that he has listed in his diary in the pros of having had a haircut.

To list the cons, he needed a new diary altogether.

His family is surprised but shocked at this sudden turn of events. He hears them whisper behind his back about 'blood tests, committing to an instituition, mental instability' and some other such stuff that he chooses to conveniently ignore.

Lastly, the barbers of 'Elite Hair Dressers' have released a full page advertisement in a leading local daily in Mysore. It has two (very familiar) pictures with the taglines of BEFORE and AFTER listed next to them, with the caption - If we can make a baboon look so good, imagine what we can do for YOU!!!

Dorky Guffaw in the Press Pit

Dorky Guffaw is a Rock Journalist. Of course, he is a Journalist as well as a Rock, but calling him the former will swell his gigantic head up in proportion just like a red giant is formed out of a dying star, and calling him the latter will just make him go off on one of his customary random tangents about Simon and Garfunkel songs, of which he has only heard the 'Greatest Hits' collection.

Now being the Bangalore Correspondent for one of the country's most famous music magazines does have its plus points, the main one being the fact that flashing a press card can do wonders in situations where the Common Man has to pay cash to gain access into. Dorky has heard that it can even work with traffic cops and the like, but he hasn't yet ventured out to make use of that opportunity and prays that he never will have to be in a sticky situation which will warrant that.

One such situation where Dorky used the power of the fourth estate to the max was when he had to go for the Scorpions concert that was held on Sunday 16th December 2007 at the Palace Grounds in Bangalore.

At the outset, print / television media is allowed two representatives into a concert of this type unless they are exclusive media partners, in which case they can even walk on stage when the artists are performing, lift up drum kit equipment to look for missing plectrums and nobody would have the authority to question them.

Dorky's magazine wasn't a media partner for this event, and as a consequence, he had to endure janta journalist treatment, which translated into a free entry into the expensive section with no access backstage or no opportunity to meet the Scorpions. Nevertheless, he was glad for the opportunity to write about the gig, while also exhibiting some class A level Kiasu, something he has been an expert at practising for quite some time now.

That trait incidentally is something that exists in the memetic make up of his entire country and as a consequence, he was an adept practitioner of the same.

He was accompanied by a friend who also wanted to put Kiasu level entry into the concert, and as a result had even brought a 7 MP digicam to masquerade as the photographer. However, Dorky had decided in a fit of selfishness that it would be he who would go into the Press Pit (which is the space between the crowd and the playing area), while his friend had to make himself happy with a bitti (free) entry.

Entering the concert venue with his friend (who had been nice enough to bring a car), Dorky proceeded to flash the press card around gleefully, almost as if he were a proud member of the FBI who had come to a crime scene investigation and was required to be given all access. His friend was amazed at the power of the press as Dorky managed to get his friend a parking place in the backstage space, reserved for VIPs and for the guests who had paid 7.5K to sit in the lounge.

Striding purposefully towards the media desk, much to the envy of the huge line of people standing both in line to get tickets as well as in line to get entry into the venue, Dorky managed to get two tags which said "MEDIA", though he'd have preferred something that said "AAA" (Access All Areas).

After bumping into an entire motley crew of people that formed present and former friends and acquaintances, some of them rabid Nazi-loving ganja-smoking acid-popping fans, some rabid Nazi-loving ganja smoking acid popping non-fans, some non-rabid Nazi-loving ganja-smoking acid-popping fans and some others that subscribed subsets of the above traits and exchanging notes on life, the universe and everything within as much time as it took to shake hands and mumble perfunctory greetings, he then proceeded to cut the queue as the plebians watched with envy. Dorky and his friend even escaped the frisking that one is subject to while entering a concert venue!

Dorky was on the lookout for some people he wanted to avoid, and he was thankful that he managed to do so without much effort on his part. It seems as though the other concerned party shared his sentiments and probably did as much if not more to avoid bumping into him, and this non-meeting was, presumably for the greater good of mankind in general and for Dorky in particular.

Once the concert began with the usual irritating ads, Dorky went into the press pit, armed with his friend's friend's 7 MP digicam which was tiny in comparison to the hugeass SLRs that the other professional photographers were carrying. However the thrill of being in the pit for the first ever time in his life mitigated the other feelings he felt, of being out of place among all stud photographers with a 7 MP digicam.

The previous concerts he had attended, he had come real close to the press pit, but never enough to actually be there. In 2001, the Bryan Adams concert saw Dorky splattered against the railing, with the surging crowds crushing his guts against the metal barricade. However, he was one of the sixty-odd people at the concert who had the distinction of having Bryan Adams spit on them as he sang 'Back thooo You'. That date was more memorable for other reasons, which would be a worthy digression, but would merit being in its own post altogether, should the author feel the need to, in the distant future.

Continuing our efforts to charter Dorky's concert experiences, he then saw Shankar Dayal Sharma give a speech in some medical college inaugural function, saw Roger Waters in the flesh, saw Deep Purple, Iron Maiden, Aerosmith and enough Indian bands in miscellaneous shows to ensure monthly visits to the ENT specialist. The fact that he loves his ipod didn't make life easier for him either.

The Scorpions came the first time around to Bangalore during the Accoustica 2001 tour of theirs, as Dorky was pretending to study for his engineering exams while actually trying out all the clothes he had amassed in his wardrobe in sequence, and being the pedantic parsimonious person that he was back then, the exam overruled attending the concert. Dorky was thinking of how he had been given an opportunity to redeem himself as he stepped into the press pit, after being ushered in by the cop who gazed respectfully at his 'MEDIA' badge.

The press pit was cooler than he thought, and as he walked all across from one end of the pit to the other and back, the crowd was gazing at him in different shades of green. He managed to see the various setup sections for each of the band members, and saw how the tech guys for each member were laying their guitars in sequence.

For a substantial time, Dorky engaged in the fine art of schadenfreude, as he went about stretching his arms and yawning in the press pit while the poor sods were cramped around the front side, gasping for breath while being in a catch 22 situation. Set yourself free for arm space and lose the coveted position or stay there and be cramped like brown people attending a rock concert in Bangalore. Quite dicey if you ask me, and as someone mentioned to him later, Dorky was being an über "schadist".

As Nietzsche once said, "humour is just schadenfreude with a clear conscience", and Dorky went about doing with gay abandon what he had seen others do unto him and other multitudes of people that had attended concerts for times immemorial, knowing fully well that this was not part of a vicious Karmic circle, but was more like ragging in college where the baton was passed on to the next set of unfortunates, instead of being thrown back to the persons who committed the peccadilo(s) in the first place.

The opening act finished, two arbit VJs from some arbit channel walked and said something that reeked of ersatz, practised wit and then finally, with a resounding noise, the Scorpions descended on the spartan stage and began their performance for the evening.

Dorky thought to himself that there are pros and cons of being in every location, and in the press pit, even though he could see the Scorpions perform much closer-up than anyone else could afford to, the compromise was made on the sound quality which mattered more to him.

Members of the press were summarily ejected by the same PRs who were nice to them just a couple of hours ago, and Dorky left, with tears of joy streaming down his eyes (exaggeration included only for effect) at his accomplishments of having been in the pit. He rejoined the crowd and had a gala time, saying "Courteney Cox" when the crowd was screaming "We want more" as part of the encore act.

For the full fledged review on the show from a strictly musical perspective, please pick up a copy of the magazine that Dorky writes for. I guarantee you that you will not be disappointed.