After six weeks in India, I thought it was about time to get myself a haircut. If I was lucky, I might be able to get one of the many bold styles that characterize many young males here, but if nothing else I could just get rid of the unruly mess that was becoming incredibly uncomfortable in this hot, humid, weather. After asking one of the boys at Transit House, chul cutter kothai (Where is the haircutter?), I headed off in the direction that I thought was the way he pointed.
Passing through the streets, I caught sight of crowds of people selling and buying vegetables and fruits along the paths and was nearly tempted to buy one of the pineapples the man was selling. Then I remembered my guide giving me a vague gesture of a left turn and so I walked up the next street but could soon see that this was the wrong way. Back along the boulevard, I was walking by a man who seemed to be selling dusters on large sticks and asked him the same question. Though he answered in rapid fire Bengali, I was able to glean sidhay, Rashbehari, and opure and thanked him for his time.
Walking along Rashbehari, I realized I didn't know which direction to go and, since I had some extra time, I decided to wander. Jewelry shops were clustered together, optical palaces huddled along the path, but haircutteries were nowhere to be found. The next person I asked told me to walk along Rashbehari but this too was unsuccessful. Feeling very confused, I utilized my last source of knowledge, the guys at Bawarchi's. Though our reliable source for egg chicken rolls was closed, I saw the teen who mans the counter and asked him for directions but unfortunately he didn't know where it was either. Walking disconsolately back, hot and tired, I walked down the first street I came to. Ahead of me, as though appearing just when I needed it most, was the Adonis Hair Salon (with air conditioning!).
Walking into the tiny salon, and immediately feeling the rush of cool air, I was immediately ushered to a seat. I asked for khoob choto (very short) but the man asked, spike korbay (Do you want to do spikes). Relieved for having finally found the salon, cool from the air conditioning, and a bit adventurous, I decided to take the leap. Over the next thirty or so minutes, the barber carefully trimmed and cut my hair like a sculptor with his David.
Looking up, I saw that the haircut, though not what I usually get, was actually pretty impressive (if a bit radical). Along with the head massage (a bit intense but incredibly good) and the hair gel, I felt like a new person. After promising to tell all my friends and bidding them goodbye, I exited the little island of cool and re-entered the steaming city, hoping I would find my way back to the Transit House.
Walking up the street, I saw the Transit House just a block ahead. I realized that instead of taking the first left I had taken the second. Each person I asked must have given me directions to a different place, leaving me dazed and confused. But no worries. I've got my Indian style, spiked, haircut and technically I found this place by myself. By getting lost I found exactly what I was looking for.