A close shave

Since reading a diary of an Englishman’s travels around India I’ve always wanted to have a haircut and a shave here. The head massage always sounded great and it’s the kind of pampering that I’m not so comfortable with back home. Only one lady and two children are allowed to touch my face in Australia, but after my first haircut-shave experience I’m happy to extend the field to Indian hairdressers.

I’m not quite ready for a trim by the side of the street, so one of my local mates takes me to a special place called Madonna’s, where they play music by … you guessed it. Strangely, there were no pictures of Guy Ritchie.

We don’t have an appointment and for a while it feels like my stylist was hoping to be at the gym instead. He pulls my head back at forth, taking it to unusual limits. He knows the English of "shorter" and "longer", which is a good start, and he begins cutting. I now have sideburns that would get me a place in the New Zealand squad, but the rest is fine. At least I don’t have the same style as one of the hairdressers in my local town. It’s easy to spot the men who go to him; they all own the look of an evangelical American.

It reminds me of one of my favourite dad’s jokes. A man walks into a hairdresser and asks for a Brett Lee (or Prince Charles or John Lennon or anybody you can think of) haircut, but when it’s finished he looks like a schoolboy. “But I asked for Brett Lee’s style,” the man complains. The hairdresser replies: “If Brett Lee came here that’s what I’d give him.”

Anyway, the shave is fabulous. I feel like Rick McCosker in 1977 when my face is wrapped in a hot towel and pushed around. Then about three lotions are rubbed into my face. I don’t need the fingers up my nose – I think he had dosas for lunch – but the rest of the treatment is fabulous, and I nearly fall asleep despite the strange angle of my head.

There’s more massaging and finally the razor comes out, being used like knifing jam on to toast. I start to sweat slightly, but it’s done before I can shout “Murder, bloody murder” or “what’s the Hindi for tetanus shot?” The only awkwardness comes when I use my tongue to try to help him around the curves of my bottom lip. “No,” the hairdresser says firmly. That’s all I need to reduce the chances of blood on the floor.

It’s McCosker time again, only now with an icy towel that makes me squeal on the inside, followed by grandfather-strength aftershave that makes me squeal on the outside. After so much pleasure, it was time for some pain. An A$11 bargain.