Every third day of my adult
life, I am punished for being a man who does not possess the facial hair that
evokes a look of desire, or stares of envy or even the self indulged
roughness-of-touch that accompanies a thick stubble. Yes, I have a
thinnish growth. It never managed or manages to spread to the 'norm'
fullness of my face. Even with my mongrel-mix of blood (including
Spanish, East Asian and Italian) my beard, and its predecessor the stubble,
never really cuts the grade. This has not been an over-riding or
disabling issue in my life but I thought it worth mentioning considering the
title of this little ditty.
As many who read my blog
know, I have been travelling to india for some time now and indeed I feel
certain that I will call it home in some new chapter of my life. My love
for the country and the people has grown expeditiously with each visit. It grows thick and considerable like the
beautiful thick facial hair of the many sub-continental men I daily fall secretly
in love with.
During this last 4 month working visit, I truly felt a sense of living in
Mumbai. I rented my own apartment, I established healthy relations with
local vendors. I commuted using trains and buses instead of relying on
ricks and taxis. I even embraced a few 'low' days which signified that I
truly was at home. Most of my friends from Mumbai were out of town for
the duration of this visit, so I was truly independent, and with a business
visa in my satchel I was able to legally operate as a wallah myself. In
my eyes, I was the closest to being a local than I had ever been in previous
trips.
Daily routines of everyday living are important to me. The pattens created from
utilising 'my' banya, 'my' cafe, 'my' dhobi, and other daily or weekly routines
are symbols of belonging. In a vocation (theatre) that is ever-changing
and has its basis in un-planned discovery, shapeless experimentation,
improvised time, and daring to get it wrong, it is the simple yet important
tasks of the everyday that keep me sane and this latest adventure of living in
Mumbai gave way to opportunities to establish these much-needed mandalas.
From my apartment in Bandra West (not as glamorous as it sounds) I could stroll
to Bizarre Road for all my groceries and domestic needs. I could get
cigarettes and Pani from a local banya whose occupant would daily correct my
very thoda Hindi, I could buy Chaat from the street and have joyous chats
to the wallah, I could walk down the street, groceries in hand, and say good
morning to my neighbours; Catholic, Muslim, Hindi, Sikh, Jain and even a
Canadian. I sat on the road at 3am drinking whisky with a couple of
neighbours with the lads from a visiting circus, I watched and cheered the
mayhemic local cricket team each Sunday, I stopped to say g'day - every day -
to a most delightful watchman who smiled and gleamed at me through his
boisterous and beautiful moustache on my daily my walk to my bus stop.
This was my home for a few months when I had not had a home since August 2014.
It offered the familiars that I was craving and it comforted my desire
for feeling a part of something as humble as a community.
One of the tasks, or indulgences, that I came to enjoy and savour every
few days was my shave. I am not talking about a shave of 'Aussie Aussie
Gillette' cheapness, scraping and slicing over my thin stubble. Nor am I
talking about triple bladed indulgences that come in packets of three;
These are now completely, and abhorrently, substandard ideas of shaving
for me.
I have now experienced the joy of BEING shaved as part of my weekly routine.
The salon I frequented for my haircuts and my shave is called 'Star Salon'.
I never once experienced it empty, even at 8.30 am. Up to 10
talented and smooth faced men of differing ages serviced an ongoing supply of
male clientele of all ages who came for their shaves, their haircuts, hair
colouring, massages, facials and any other service that, in the western world,
would be seen as a beautification process relegated to the 'are they
gay?' community. But in Mumbai, it is an essential service that is as
natural for a BLOKE as going to the hardware store to buy a screwdriver.
By my fourth visit to Star, I had experienced about 8 of the master craftsmen
of the Salon. I soon recognised that all the employees specialised in
something particular but all were proficient in each service this man-cave of
the hirsute could supply. I had become accustomed to the particular
smells of the lotions and perfumes, the aroma of the towels dried in the sun,
the body-scents from the hands of the barbers, heightened by my eyes-closed
awareness. The smells of a profession.
Waiting for a chair to occupy has rarely been more than a 10 minute chore at
the Star and if perchance it is a longer wait, watching this factory of
follicles in full swing is a pleasurable experience.
The Boss gives a small but precise nod and i'm directed to my seat.
Mounting my leather chair I perform my usual routine of turning my phone
to silent, discarding my much needed glasses and and arranging my limbs to find
their comfort zone.
I search the blue-paper laminated menu of the delights that the Star Salon
offered, which I did dutifully each and every visit, just in case I have missed
some unique service. Cuts, trims, colours, massages, lotus facials
and........SHAVE. The shave is all I was here for today. I had
been in this very chair having my hair cut just 5 days ago.
Who would lay hands on me today to slice away my three day growth as it were?
Who would wield with swordsman-like skill the razor sharp razor's blade
to bring my pink western skin back to the surface?
My favourite specialist of the craft of shaving is Rahul. Rahul is
approximately 30 years old, slightly pointed and a man whose hands were the
smoothest and strongest I have ever felt manipulate my face. And yes,
with his usual gleam of 'who's next?', Rahul steps forward.
On his short journey to my chair, a much younger guy, I assume the apprentice,
hands Rahul a fresh towel. Rahul looks at me with intimate understanding
of my facial contours as he approaches.
I began to lift my hand to point to the mole on my top lip so's to remind Rahul
to take care not to knick its head during his operation but he smiles his
pointed face smile at me before my thought turns into words and he says 'Yes'.
Never before had a felt so safe - considering Rahul was about to pick up
an instrument that could slice my throat cleaner than the edge of paper slicing
its way into webbing between fingers.
A jolt of mechanics sends the chair to a prescribed angle that allows me to lie
back, exposing my throat. This is the settling moment of the process
where I close my eyes; My sight is no longer a part of the experience. I
now rely on smells, touch and sounds. I consciously resist the
urge, each and every time I am shaved professionally, to open my eyes to check
on my master. I trust them, I hand over my face and throat to them
willingly. It is their show and I will do nothing to judge their actions
but indulge the experience.
The sounds of a stationary body moving in space are quite beautiful. Rahul's
arms and hands, waist and torso and thighs were in motion gathering and
rearranging the tools he would require to perform his craft, bare feet
firmly placed on the clean, clean salon's floor. Gentle but solid
vibrations of flesh through air fill my ears as he prepares to perform an
operation that is second nature to him but not quite owned by myself, the
client. I allow my imagination to enter its first stage of indulgence and
my armour of the day to begin to loosen its straps.
Waiting in unique-to-this-experience anticipation of the first sensation of the
process, my heart rate noticeably increases. It's like the feeling from a
distant memory of beginning a primary school race or, from more awakened
memories, a first kiss from someone you desire. The 30 second to a minute
wait is at once excruciating and blissful.
The actual shave; its warm towels, its fine-spay water, the texture of
the cream as its masterfully spread with fingers, the blade gliding over my
skin as it slices individual hairs, the sensuality of a thumb pressing into my
flesh to cross check the blades work, the eradication of stubble, this is
what this musing was going to investigate.
I have changed my mind.
It's something I will leave as a mystery until another day...perhaps.
It's something that is a part of MY India as a ferangi.
It's something I would wish everyone of my friends to experience one day.
Breath, relax, smell, sensate.
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