My Kingdom for a Haircut
At the end of a recent workday, I announced to my boss that I wanted to get a haircut that evening. She laughed and asked, “what hair do you need cutting?” True, my hair wasn’t quite as long as many of the young guys in Kolkata, but it was getting thick and making my head hot when I walked around outside.
I knew I wanted to get a haircut in Kolkata ever since our third day in the city. Walking along the busy road adjacent to our apartment, I saw two men, one sitting on a box, facing a cracked mirror leaned against a portion of wall, and the other cutting his hair. The seated man had a towel across his shoulders, and that was it. The simplest and purest version of the act, which is essentially the mantra of Kolkata street culture. The haircut on the street costs about $0.50.
I informed Diti, our boss, that I was interested in getting a cut at this place down the street from our office, where this skinny graying barber operated out of a 1-chair salon about the size of my closet. Same guy, all day every day. She smiled and chuckled again, somewhat patronizingly, and said “Hmmm. Well that will surely be an experience. Just make sure he sanitizes the comb and the scissors.”
Alright, so maybe I wasn’t ready for the most authentic experience. Diti instead recommended this place called Jawed Habib, which is apparently a pretty well-known and affordable chain. Great Clips, but with Hindi music, I assumed. She gave me some general directions- right next to Navina Cinema, on Prince Anwar Shah Road. I looked the place up on Google Maps, where the location was listed as “permanently closed.” Being that Google Maps understands approximately only 80% of Kolkata, I decided to chalk this one up to the remainder.
I made my way confidently to Anwar Shah Road, drawing the usual extended glances from the shopkeepers, children and other residents of our neighborhood. A ginger giant in Kolkata, I wonder if he’s lost. Turning right, I caught sight of the Navina Cinema ahead. I was feeling pretty good about myself and my ability to successfully navigate through the city. I stepped inside the gate to a row of shops where I was certain Jawed Habib would be waiting for me with a nylon bib, to find that the supposed location of the salon was occupied by…
Subway.
This must have been the Western World’s idea of a cruel joke. You got me Subway. Your stomach-turning bread smell has followed me to Kolkata and mocks my need of a hairdresser. Shaking off my exasperation, I felt spurned to persevere. The solution came to me almost immediately: go ask somebody. In Kolkata, the best way to find any place or thing is to ask anyone on the street, especially if they don’t seem to be going anywhere. On a given day, at 5:30PM that’s roughly 2 million people. Significantly more reliable than Google Maps.
I approached a group of guys lounging on their motorbikes. Jawed Habib? One of them nodded in recognition and pointed non-specifically down the road. “Which side?” I asked, already dreading the answer I knew was coming. “Other side.”
Crossing the street. Oh boy. To say you are taking your life into your own hands is inaccurate. You are relinquishing your life to whoever’s driving and simply moving your legs. The best method for crossing sounds insane until you experience it. You’re supposed to walk calmly and confidently, in as straight a line as possible. Don’t hesitate, don’t dodge. The cars, trucks, buses, bicycles, motorbikes, and rickshaws will all maneuver around you like a rather noisy school of fish. If you try to play Frogger, things are more likely to go poorly.
With one foot on the opposite sidewalk I felt the gust of an auto-rickshaw zooming past, about three inches from my heel. I made my way in the direction I’d been told, ducking under the bamboo sticking out the back of two carts, hopping over puddles and inching around the different zig-zagging blockades between me and my supposed destination.
I knew I’d become adjusted to life in Kolkata when the sight of a cow just minding his or her own business on the side of a busy road is only mildly surprising. This time there were two- a hulking shiny chocolate-colored beast next to a scrawny pale-brown guy. Jawed Habib? I half expected an answer.
Seeing a big intersection ahead, I knew I must have missed it. My eyes became drawn by a foliage-filled compound that had appeared to my right. Young men were making their way around inside the wrought iron fence, dressed in traditional Muslim garb and caps. It looked like a pleasant place to be, one of the many green oases of Kolkata, which were usually protected by high fences and razor wire. An older man was standing outside the compound’s gate. He smiled when he saw me and nodded. I decided to give it another go.
Jawed Habib? I grabbed a lock of my hair and mimed scissors with my other hand. The man studied me for a few moments, obviously rather intrigued. Then he motioned behind himself.
“Mosque,” he stated plainly, as if resolving the issue.
I tried to keep from audibly sighing. I gave him an enthusiastic, “okay, thank you, goodbye!”
Close to giving up, I came to a little stall at the intersection where the shopkeeper was sitting cross-legged inside with four other guys around, smoking cigarettes and not really going anywhere. Perfect. These are the guys in Kolkata. They know where absolutely everything is.
Jawed Habib? I tried, doing the dumb haircut-miming act again.
They didn’t quite seem to hear me. In a reflex-like motion, I pulled out my phone, opened up a Note and typed out “Jawed Habib.” I handed it over to the closest street-oracle. He showed it to the council and they started conversing furiously and pointing in two different directions. My heart started to sink, then suddenly the shopkeeper jumped out of his seat, grabbing my phone in the process, and leaving the others to bicker, grabbed me by the shoulder and turned me around.
Pointing down the street, he said, “Five minutes. Then left.”
I considered telling him that I’d just come from that direction, but I decided to let the adventure roll on, for better or worse. I was at the mercy of the city now. Taking my phone back, I said thank you and began retracing my steps. I waved at the older man standing in front of the gate. “Mosque?” I asked, pointing inside. My sarcasm was obviously lost on him. He nodded rather seriously, “Mosque.”
At this point I didn’t really care whether or not I located Jawed Habib. The whole experience of finding the place was a perfect metaphor for my time in Kolkata. Wandering, confusing, free, and the weirdest sort of fun. Everyone lives their life right out on the street. There’s no escaping reality, or humanity, and everything you could possibly need is right around you. It’s just a matter of finding your way, mistake by mistake.
Of course, Jawed Habib was on my left after five minutes. I’d walked right by it, probably because I had been looking at my phone. Inside was the overpowering air conditioning and Hindi music I was expecting. A young guy with a jet-black fade had me sit down and put the bib around me. He asked, very deliberately, “What’s your look?”
Hmm. Can you give me something that says sweaty vagrant globe-trotter?
