nce upon a time, there lived a boy in India, whose hair were like that of a bear. Amateur barbers feared his presence because they could not comprehend the dense forest that grew on his head. They feared that they would have to use a magnet to find a scissor dropped accidentally in that lushness. Seasoned barbers approved his presence with a nod and a curt smile, just like a Gladiator would acknowledge a fearsome tiger. The boy’s viral hair growth was a challenge which they gracefully accepted. Some barbers would plead him to have a haircut more frequently because they could not afford to break so many combs and lose so many customers and spend half their day serving him.
The boy was not sure whether to pity the barbers or laugh at them. Their hands would go numb snip-sniping as the boy’s locks fell like trees falling down to make way for cities. Sweat would drip from their brows and stain their underarms. Sometimes, the boy would admire his hair as he stood in front of the mirror, moving his neck here and there and tossing them like noodles tossed in large bowls in street food stalls. He would run his fingers through them and feel that part of his body where sunlight never reached (his scalp that is). Sometimes his fingers would get stuck and he had to untangle them.
Then one fine day, in the midst of a collective barber-ist-sigh-of-relief, the boy left for Manchester. There was a celebration in his locality that day. The Barbers gave free haircuts to everyone.
The barbers in Manchester did not use scissors to cut his hair. They used trimmers and would just ask for the attachment comb number before mowing down his hairs as if they were grass gone wild in a lawn. What surprised the boy was that in a country where an alarming number of men were bald or were going to be bald soon, not a single barber praised his hair. They were so full of themselves, jabbering about their life all the time as they trimmed his hair to vapid styles.
A year later, he got married and his wife moved in with him. It was that year when he discovered a small barber shop tucked in a corner of a road near his home. It was run by three she-barbers and he had the privilege of getting serviced by all three of them.
The first she-barber who sheared his hair was a slim, handsome woman. She had black hair and black eyes. As she cut his hair, she told him about her son Mike who was nine years old. She talked so much about him that by the time she was done with the boy, he knew that little Mike had a mole on his left butt and his second molar was making its bucket list. He knew that Mike loved to play basketball and hated onions. He knew that Mike was learning Judo and loved Shrek. The boy was now having a feeling that he had known Mike ever since his mother pushed him out of her body. The she-barber also asked him about India and how she hated Manchester’s rainy weather. The boy invited her to come and live in 45 degrees in Indian summers.
The next time the boy went to the shop, he found a smiling, chubby blonde waiting to slice his hair. By this time, he have had enough of trimmers and those ughhh haircuts that he asked her to use a scissor. She blinked and stared at him as if her had asked her to use some alien technology. She obliged and soon the familiar snipping sound of the scissor filled the ears of the boy. He closed his eyes to treat his eardrums. The sound of “Oh Shit!!!!!!” brought him back to reality. He opened his eyes and found that the she-barber number 2 had snipped her own finger and was dripping blood all over the floor. The boy had an impulse to laugh out loud and roll on the floor holding his stomach but he controlled it and asked her to put her finger in running water. He asked her not to use the scissor anymore after she bandaged her finger but she insisted. He held his breath till she finished because he was expecting his blood smeared ear to fall in his lap anytime.
She-barber number 3 was a beautiful young woman beaming at him as he entered the shop. Her eyes twinkled as she laid them on him. As the boy settled on the seat, she ran her fingers in his thick hair. She did it again and again and again till the boy started to worry that she will keep doing this for the rest of her life. He cleared his throat and she said – “Your hairs are soooohhhh thick!”. He smiled. It was after such a long time that someone had noticed his hair. She kept running her fingers in his hair as she snipped them slowly and kept repeating this at regular intervals.
“Your hairs are soooooooohhhh thick!!!”
“Your hairs are sooooooooooooooooooooooooohhhhhhhh thick!!!”
He was sure she was having multiple orgasms by just running her fingers in his hair and he was alarmed by it. Then she started talking to him and asked him about his hobbies.
“I watch a lot of movies and read books,” he said.
“Wow! Me too! I go for movies on weekends. Your hairs are sooooooooohhhh thick!”
“Great! I usually roam around in the City Center, watch a play at times.”
“Do you party on weekends? Go out or something like that? God! Your hair are sooooooohhhhhhh thick!!!”
The boy knew where this was going. He was now supposed to ask her out but he kept his trap shut and the moment passed.
ater when the boy reached home and told his wife about his adventures, she stared at him for a few seconds.
“Why didn’t you tell her that you are married?” She asked.
“What?!? When a girl is running her fingers in your hair, biting her lips and moaning that your hairs are soooooohhhhhh thick, you do not tell her that you are married. That is very rude.”
“She was not biting her lips,” his wife said.
“You were not there.”
“You would not have missed that detail in your first narration. Who else was there in the shop?”
“Ahem. Just the two of us.”
“I love you baby,” the boy said.
“I hope so!”
It took a few days for the boy to bring things back to normal in his house but he never went back to that particular shop again. His wife always gave him a peculiar look when they passed it but always found him concentrating at the ducks and rowboats in river Mersey which ran under the bridge next to the shop.