Sunday is not the best day to get a haircut. The world around you is enjoying their weekly off and they’ve all kept that trim, shave or massage scheduled for that day. Some of the lucky ones have a five day week but will not be seen anywhere near a scissor or a razor on a Saturday. Superstition says so. Many others wouldn’t go for any voluntary hair shedding on Tuesdays and Thursdays and also the day of their birth. That leaves only three days to choose from and Sunday seems to be the best. Only that on Sundays barber shops are overcrowded and the Mr. Scissorhands is in a hurry to make more money and you get a lousy haircut.
The motive here is not to determine the auspicious day to sit on the chair facing the mirror, but something related to that chair that was a milestone in my early life. I don’t remember exactly when, but I must have been 8 or 9 then.
When kids go for a haircut – they are usually made to sit atop a plank balanced on the handrests of the chair (atleast I was made to, for many years). This brings the little head of hair to a level where it is easy to manoeuvre the scissors about. Then one day the barber didn’t take out the plank from the corner and for the first time I felt the softness of the foam underneath the faux leather and felt big. That event to me symbolised the transition from a kid to a boy. I felt a little grownup.
Yesterday, the kid sitting next to me on those faux leather chairs seemed very happy. He wasn’t sitting on any plank.
