Male Bastions

This appeared in Today in Oct. 2004.

Women everywhere seem to be soaring through glass ceilings practically every day. Recently I gate crashed a male bastion too. I took my son to a gents beauty parlor (Is
that an oxymoron?) to get his hair cut.
Big deal, one may say. But just think. When we were kids, the words salon and beauty parlor were unknown. Saloon was a fancy place with mirrors and talcum powder where a man went on Sunday and came back with short back and sides, hair slick from a good champi and chin glistening after a professional shave. Such a visit entailed an immediate “head bath”.
As kids we lived in Army cantonments, away from the town proper. Maybe for this reason, a barber used to come home to attend to my father, rather than Dad going to him. Once in a while, the barber was directed to “bob” our hair too—my sister’s and mine. That was the height of hair-fashion!
The humble barber shop became the hairdressing saloon, or just the saloon. Its latest avatar is the parlor, and its up-market cousin, the salon. Men don’t just go there for a shave or a haircut, but for everything from threading and waxing to perms and facials.
When my son was much younger, I would nonchalantly whisk him off to my parlor to get his hair trimmed. Now, it was out of the question. I dared not even suggest it, knowing I’d be met with an exasperated “Mommmm!”
All these thoughts chased across my mind as I sat waiting while my son was in the chair. Wodehouse’s “cat in a strange alley which expects a half-brick bunged at it any moment” must not have been half as jumpy as I was. Though not really expecting a half-brick, I was nevertheless acutely aware of invading somebody’s privacy. What if a guy wanted some waxing done? Would he go ahead anyway or come back later when the parlor was free of pesky intruders?
There was a father-son duo getting their haircuts side by side. I gazed wistfully at them and rued the fact that my husband was working on that Sunday, thus depriving my son of male bonding. On the table beside me lay a couple of magazines, their covers hidden by newspapers thrown carelessly on them. I reached for one, then checked myself. What if it turned out to be a “men’s-eyes-only” sort of magazine? The point was not whether I would get embarrassed, but that maybe the men there would feel uncomfortable.
From time to time, the hairdresser would ask me for any preference in style for my son’s hair. I replied in monosyllables, my knowledge of spikes and mushroom-cuts woefully inadequate. Not to mention the fact that my son was probably outraged at the hairstylist going over his head (literally!) to consult me.
At last it was over and I thankfully got up to pay. Stern resolve: No more taking such jobs off hubby’s carefree shoulders. Bank work, car servicing, yes. Ferrying kids, dealing with laborers, yes. Gents salon, no.
The door opened and another lady came in with her son.
Sorry guys!