“Jo,” Dad asked on Saturday morning. “When could you take me to get a haircut? It’s just driving me crazy it’s so long.”
It was the fourth time he had asked me. I had been racking my brain for days trying to think of a barber whose shop was presentable enough to take Dad to without him feeling he was going to catch lice or hepatitis or worse. Today, luckily, Ravi overheard him asking me.
“Why are you even thinking about taking him anywhere at his age?” he said in Hindi. “Call the barber here.”
“No problem, Dad.” I said mysteriously. “Leave it to me.”
I went down to Lovely Market and met my old friend Sultan. His shop features a sink with no plumbing. All he has is a bucket under the drain so when the water runs, the bucket fills. Simple. But a little gross.
Anyway, I told him about my Dad and he said he would come to the house that afternoon.
And so he did. We set up the chair on the verandah and, with a view of the street and a paparazzi clicking away, Dad had his first ever open-air haircut. Ah, India!
