.

I hear the rapid-fire staccato of a bicycle bell and I know it’s time to run and hide.

The first place that comes to mind is always my bedroom. But that’s no good. Never is. The store-room under the staircase then? Too dark. The balcony? Too open. The garden? Stupid place to hide considering that’s where the Indian barber will park his bicycle and set up the torture chamber, right under the biggest of the mango trees, the Siamese one. No, it’s probably easier to give up this flight; they’ll find me sooner than later.

Mom’s already calling me. Sighing, I run downstairs and out into the garden. The barber’s already pulled out the stool and gathering the rest of his equipment, his sarong wrapped confidently around his waist. He calls me over, hands me an old bronze cup. It is really light in my hands and for a minute, I am mesmerised by the dark and light smudges, the beatings it took to shape its near-perfect form. It’s this I remember most today - the cup, the water I must fill it with.

These days, there really aren’t many traditional barbers left in Malaysia, Indian or otherwise. I see a few authentic barber shops around, usually manned by a pair of grizzled old Indian gentlemen. There are still the large, ungainly barber chairs that used to frighten me at the age of seven; now I am taller than my barbers and my legs drift away from the chair into the corners. The mirrors are bigger, brighter, cleaner; the music is rarely Hindustani songs, more likely the latest pop hits on the radio. Of course, it’s no longer stifflingly hot; there are air-conditioners now. Sometimes I don’t even smell the jasmine or incense. A haircut has become sterile now, safer, and more dull, I believe.

And I haven’t seen a cycling barber in years.

The cup. The water. The blade. The terrible shaving blade that he’ll whip around the back of my neck, around the sides. I am stone when he wields it over my head for fear of getting sliced. I take my time filling the cup with water from the garden hose because once I’m done, I will have to sit down on the stool, and he will begin. It’s inevitable, but every minute delayed counts somehow, like a respite from an unjust sentence.

Eventually, the Indian barber gets impatient and shouts for me to sit down and stop playing the fool. He grabs my head in his hands roughly (how hard his fingers, how cold) and tilts my face up. It’s a moment before murder, I think, and this thought relaxes me somewhat. I always plead, “Jangan pendek sangat, jangan pendek sangat¹” and he would always reply, “Botak baru cantik.”²

I believed from the age of six till eleven that the cycling barber would shave my head bald one day, as promised, simply because he believed it was beautiful. A naked scalp, like his, wrapped snugly under a white skull cap he always wore. I can see the white in his short, well-trimmed beard. It tells me that he is wise, in his own way.

No wisdom greets me when I walk into a hair salon now. No barbers for me. No time. The new hairdressers are young boys, from small towns migrated into the big city. Not unlike this old Malaccan boy, yes? The magazines are FHM, Men’s Health, Torque. This is men’s only, but it is no barber shop. There are no cups; no need for there isn’t any water. Just a vacuum tube and a sterilised brush-head. Quick and easy. They won’t even remember your name when you leave. All you are is a membership card and an identification number. Before the door closes behind me, the kid at the counter reminds, “Two more cuts, sir, and the next one free!”

Ah, for the days of scary cycling barbers again!