Barbershop

it costs 30 rupees for a straight razor shave. Who’s doin the shavin and who’s just hanging out, the barber shop is full of guys, curious about the foreigners who stepped off the back street. And when my barber snaps in the new razor, it looks a little worse for wear, is that rust? And he gives it a rinse with some tepid water. Lathers me up, fans stirring slowly overhead, the kid beside me is getting a bowl-cut butcher job and is crying quietly because of it, but now the hairs are being sliced from my ghost-white visage, and I can tell the razor isn’t razor-sharp because there’s a tiny pull, a tiny scrape, but it’s coming off smooth just the same. More men arrive in the doorway, or whisper quietly in the darker corners, smiling and the word Canadian seeps through now and then. (when they asked, ?American?, we said no, Canadian. They said, same thing? We said, are India and Pakistan the same thing?) he’s given my face the twice-over now, and it’s baby butt smooth, so he rubs perfumed oil into my baby’s butt and vigorously shake-massages my face so my whole body is vibrating and I’m trying not to laugh at how strange it feels, but it feels good. He asks if I want an oil head massage- What the hell. I feel like a dog with fleas as he empties what looks like fast-food ketchup package of molasses-thick golden oil at the crown of my scalp, and goes to work rubbing and squeezing it in below the hairs. It’s not the drift away to ocean soothing sounds type of head massage- there’s no worry of falling asleep as he’s either pushing and rubbing his fingers so hard against my scalp that my whole head is moving, or he’s bonking it- there’s no other word for it- with the bottom of his fists, quickly and efficiently. My head definitely feels lighter when he’s done. They ask if I want a full-body massage, but I’m good. The foreigners leave the barber shop..