The Vintage Barber Shop: Trim to Time

Today, as I sat in the barber’s chair, with his scissors snipping away, I suddenly found myself disconnected from the man shaping my geography. A curious feeling swept over me, like the world around me blurred, and I was flying back to my good old days of carefree childhood. My mind raced through memories of a place long gone, but still alive in fragments within my mind—a vintage barber shop.

These barber shops, once a common sight, are now extinct in most places, though they may exist somewhere, perhaps as living fossils. The defining features of such shops were as unique as they were humble. The chairs were wooden, with a patina of age and stories of their own. Wooden benches placed just outside the wooden cabin for waiting list candidates * written as barberque (not to be confused with its culinary cousin), is the place for gossips, lively chats and a cuppa of coffee.

The cabin itself was built from timber, with a single exit window that allowed for a faint breeze to find its way through. The height of the shop was elevated in true Indian ‘jugaad’ style—a collection of pilfered bricks stacked high, giving the place its rustic charm. But the true magic was in the details: the walls were plastered with colorful Bollywood posters, actresses smiling and striking poses, with ultra big boobs, lending the space a kitschy, bohemian flair.

The vibrancy of these images—bold in color and typography—blended with the cutouts from the local vernacular dailies, leaving an impression of faded glamour. The combination of vibrant stardust cutouts and greyish newspaper prints became the ultimate visual feast. They provided ample opportunity for the barber to indulge in some wistful ‘Barberque’ fantasies as he waited for his next customer.

It was a time when a haircut wasn’t just a task—it was an experience. The barber would engage in lively conversation, and I’ve often wondered if the concept of the Encyclopedia was born right there in those barber chairs. A good barber wasn’t just a haircutter; he was a polymath, a conversationalist, a glib storyteller, and a smooth liar. He knew how to lure the customer into endless discussions about everything from politics to philosophy.

The conversations were always designed to engage both parties—the customer in the chair and the barber leaning over, deftly maneuvering the scissors and razors. It was a delicate balance. The difference, of course, was that the barber had the freedom to swivel his head like an owl, while the customer, bound by the limited scope of the chair, had far less latitude of movement.

This gave rise to a strange, yet familiar struggle. As the customer (who I imagine as a modern-day Vikramaditya, sitting on the throne of his own kingdom) would attempt to steal a glance at the posters, wishing to catch a glimpse of the outside world, his movements were controlled by the barber—who, like the mythical Betal- the ghost, had complete control over the situation.

The dance between Vikram and Betal was a delicate one. Vikram and Betal is a mythological collection of a king and a ghost conversation. The customer yearned to escape the barber’s grasp, eager to stretch his neck and steal just one more glance at the outside world. Meanwhile, the barber, with the precision of an artist, continued his work, a gentle hand guiding the customer’s head back into place. The entire scene would play out in what seemed like a time-warped ballet, where the stakes were as simple as the comfort of a good conversation and the art of a perfect haircut.

And when it was all over—when the razor’s final stroke was applied and the talc powder dusted along the edges—the customer would sigh with relief. Like Vikram escaping the clutches of Betal, he would rise from the chair, finally free, yet nostalgic for a time when a haircut was so much more than just a trim—it was a story, a memory, and a moment in time.