There’s a particular mood to barber shops, if you know what I mean. A sense of sadness, slow music in the air, like time has stopped for a bit. And the mood is the same in every barber shop, whether you are in one of those ugly Gurgaon housing blocks, or in a slightly posh area in Pune, or in a Bangalore suburb with an idly shop next to it. The atmosphere is that of a lazy Sunday morning, because that’s when you are usually there, and the song playing is an old Hindi hit from the 90s. Think songs like ab tere bin jee lenge hum, or paas tum aane lage zara zara. A particular staple is the 1991 superhit Saajan, whose songs you will hear in every barber shop if you give it enough time - dekha hai pehli baar is one of those tunes that is seared into Indian millennials' collective memory. One song that came back to me on a recent visit was from 2001’s Raaz - jo bhi kasmein khai thi humne. It thrilled me, that hit of nostalgia just as the straight razor was near my neck, though of course I could make no movement. It reminded me of school, of forgotten MTV shows, and made me, suddenly, think about life itself.
For some reason, this is how I’ve always thought of barber shops, as one of those rare places where an Indian male, adolescent or adult, lets their guard down. You can feel your demeanour change as you enter one, you calm down, you wait, you read an old paper. On one hand, you have to—there’s a man with scissors and knife hovering over you. But in another way, you choose to. It’s a safe space, where not only do you get some (much needed) grooming, you can also indulge a bit in the all-male atmosphere, lament aloud that they don’t make music like they used to, and discuss cricket with strangers. And it’s not just me who has felt this. Talk to any man you know, and they will immediately understand what I’m talking about: We like being there.
Why it should be this way is surprising. Indian society is inherently, immensely patriarchal, after all. Our public spaces are meant for, designed by, and overrun by men. The lack of safety and places to 'just be' for women has been documented extensively, including in popular books and national commentary. It’s a problem I’m sympathetic too, because to loiter in a city, both in light and dark, is one of the things that brings me a lot of joy. So why do we, as men, when we have the whole damn country to walk and sit around in, feel this way in a barber shop? Why single this little place out, which in some cases may not even be an actual shop, just a chair and a mirror?
I have put some thought into this, and I have theories. One is that Indian men, especially of a certain class, retain a certain emotional inhibition. It’s a hard world, and the business of life takes up much of their minds and hearts. For most, this inability to express ourselves, to allow ourselves to feel, is a part of the experience of life. When we talk, we don’t actually talk. Where is the time? And there is also the fear that if we do bare ourselves, we might be laughed at, thought less of. It's not right, but it is the way it is. This repression also exhibits itself in terrible ways, but in a barber shop, where we are allowed to sit around and sigh, we seem to take and enjoy the opportunity.
Something else that comes to mind is that the modernity arrived at different times to all of us. Our experiences, models, and aspirations have diverged. This is the result of the internet’s democratisation of knowledge and access, which means there are more avenues of consumption and ambition. Translation: We all are inspired by different things, want different things. The algorithm makes sure of that. But something common about the Indian experience is the 90s, when we all had the same things to look at and feel. TV, radio, money, material things: Our lives were similar. And the barber shop is the last remnant of that very familiar time. We see that space, almost emotionally, as ours.
All of which is to say that for some reason, it is a place where men seem to be free-er than usual. It’s an in-between place, where you are not doing anything actively, so you can relax. You can recharge, get ready. And at the same time, you can look back, listen to an old song, and feel that sweet sense of loss in asking yourself, quietly, where all the years went.