The Blah Blahs and the Yada Yadas

18 Mar, 2013

Cutting Edge Developments

Posted by: hammy In: faux pas|Life in the UAE

The human population is so diverse that no single means of classification can do any group justice. Classifying people on their inclination to get haircuts is as good a rationale as any. You can observe that within the male audience, there are people who like to keep neatly trimmed, perfectly groomed hair on their noggins. On the other side, we have the stubbornly resistant haircut-defying rebels who would raise arms against the ritual massacre of their cranial follicles.

For the major part of my life, I had belonged to the latter, defiant segment, hiding away from marauding scissors for as long as possible. However, the rebellious streak has weakened, partly due to professional etiquette, partly due to wifely influence (“If you don’t get your hair cut today, I’m hiding the remote!”), and partly due to the fact that my hair has protested my lack of attention by parting ways.

You think I'm bluffing

While I have become more regular than before, I still have a long way to go before I’ll be admitted to the Regular-Haircut Guys Club (That’s a thing, right?). The point is that I’m still not a regular enough customer for hair stylists that I know the latest trends/ procedures they follow. Whenever they throw their fancy haircut lingo at me (“Sir, all I’m asking is if you would like it short or medium”), I just sort of wing it (“Well, I’m thinking I’ll have a little bit of both, you know”). Normally, this works out fine (as far as I know), but this becomes an especially troublesome issue when you bring in strong accents into the mix. This is the case with my current hair stylist, a chatty young Arab who is always full of energy. He speaks a little bit of English, but it is so heavily accented that for me, it’s almost indistinguishable from his Arabic.

When I went for my last haircut, I just wanted a slight trim, but when the stylist started the session with some question, I nodded instinctively. I only realized that I had agreed to a short hairdo after he ran his trimmer over my head. Sure, it took me by surprise, and I realized almost immediately that the question the guy had asked was whether I wanted my hair really short. At this point, the only thing I could do was pretend this was what I wanted all along.


There was nothing to do but silently accept the fact that I would be wearing a stubble on my head for a while. But while I was busy silently accepting, my stylist’s Englibic (or Arabish, if you prefer) struck again. He pointed at my face, said “vazzof ok?“, and paused for my response. I was sharp enough to understand that he was asking me if something was OK. But I had no clue what this ‘something’ was. In such a situation, the prudent conversationalist would insist on knowing context before replying. The prudent conversationalist would have asked for clarity and persisted on getting an answer. However, on that day, there was a distinct lack of prudent conversationalists in the saloon. This is why I smiled uncertainly and replied “OK“. I mean, what the hell; I was feeling pretty fine.

After saying OK, I immediately started analyzing what a vazzof could be, and whether it was truly OK. Perhaps he was making small-talk  and Vazzof was a town under seige that he was concerned about. But if that’s the case, then why would he assume that I had inside information on Vazzof? Maybe I looked a bit Vazzofish. Maybe he thought I was from Vazzoff. I don’t know anything about Vazzof, so I couldn’t assess whether I should be flattered or insulted by this. The best way, I reasoned, would be to keep a neutral expression and sit thr… whatha??

My thoughts were interrupted suddenly by a warm, squishy sensation on my upper cheek. Being smarter than the average bear, I was quick to connect the dots and decipher the code. What my jaunty stylist had asked me a minute ago was not “Vazzof ok?”. He was pointing at my cheek and saying “Wax off, OK?”. He was smearing my upper cheek with wax, and before I fully realized what was happening, he had already spread the stuff on my forehead. It was time for me to quickly put a stop to this and admit my mistake. Which would have been the sensible thing to do, but being a man, false pride trumps sensibility, and I opted to pretend that this was what I intended all along.

is that all you've got

Needless to say, I was even more nervous by this point. I had heard tales of horror of how much the waxing process hurt, and I had never even heard of anyone doing this to their face. So I nervously chuckled “He he… .This is the first time I’m doing this. Ha ha.” He replied “Habibi (Friend), You no done this before??? Relax, relax.”, and he kept chanting ‘relax’, even as he picked up a couple of fresh ear buds and nonchalantly shoved some more wax up my nose.

My nose! My nose? When did that happen? How has society devolved to accept that a grown man can plug hot wax into another man’s nostril? Under what circumstances is this a scenario where relaxing is even a remote option?? Who waxes the inside of their nose anyway? Apparently, I do. But it wasn’t like I had a lot of time to ponder over the devolution of humanity. The wax hardened soon, and the stylist began the procedure of painfully, painfully ripping apart erstwhile pieces of my face. I was busy trying to keep my inner voice to myself, as at that point, my inner voice was high pitched, squeamish, and uncannily similar to a little girl’s screams.

I'm telling you

Waxing. I don’t have the time, patience or the energy to look up the history of this practice. So I have no choice but to assume that this is a derivative of a medieval torture practice, whispered to the medieval warmongers by the devil himself. The process of ripping the hardened stuff off my face was excruciatingly painful, and I felt that the only reason I wasn’t bleeding was that the searing heat had cauterized the wounds early off. While that was tough, compared to the plight of my nostrils, it was a piece of cake  – a nasty, ugly piece of cake. When he yanked those buds off, I had no doubt in the least that my nose had come off.

but still...

And now, here I am, de-follicled and in pain, all simply because I couldn’t just say no. No, I don’t understand what you’re saying. No, I do not want my hair cut short. No, I don’t want my face waxed, thank you. And for the love of God, no, I don’t want to wax my nostrils. I can’t think of anybody who’d be impressed by the smooth, shiny texture of your noses’ inside. If YOU can think of someone, you need to report that guy to the authorities. I want to go back to the saloon, grab my hair stylist by the hair (I am a fan of irony, even if ironically, I got the word ‘irony’ wrong here) and yell at him, explaining that nobody wants their nostrils polished; that evolution put hair there for a reason.

I WANT to do that, but I won’t. I won’t, because I know that if I go back to the salon, he may ask me if I want my eyebrows dyed blue. And chances are that I’ll smile uncertainly, nod my head, and say OK.

8 Responses to "Cutting Edge Developments"

1 | Dharma

March 18th, 2013 at 10:57 am


good read

2 | Durba Roy

March 22nd, 2013 at 4:46 pm


Dude, this is hilarious!!! Love your style of writing!! Haha I really cannot stop laughing and it’s making me wonder if you actually went through this gruesome experience (if so, well then it warrants a picture of you as a testimony :D) or is this your funny imagination!! Haha nonetheless – a beautiful piece of writing indeed! Cheers.

3 | hammy

March 24th, 2013 at 11:47 am


Thanks, Dharma. You’re mastering the art of brevity, I see. :D

Thank you very much, Durrs. How sacrilegious of you to doubt the veracity of my torture. Pics of the gruesome torture are available, and I have sent those to you privately, but it would be irresponsible for me to cast out those pics out there on the internet. It’s the kind of substance that can infect young minds and potentially cultivate a new generation of psychopathic barbers. It’s not a risk I’m willing to take.

4 | Nithya

March 26th, 2013 at 2:29 pm


:D such a funny read!

5 | Stock Market Brokers India

May 15th, 2013 at 12:01 pm


ha ha ha. Intellect served with laughter. liked your style. and yeah, neither me want to wax my head ;)

6 | The Blah Blahs and the Yada Yadas » Blog Archive » Slightly over seige, doncha think?

June 24th, 2013 at 10:32 am


[…] – I’m suffering through an overload at work, stress, traffic woes, a nosebleed, nightmares of getting waxed off again, and Stallone’s ‘Bullet to the Head’, none of which were pleasant. But finally, a spot of […]

7 | suparna

June 24th, 2013 at 10:36 pm


Man, I dont know whether to laugh or cry at this post ! Waxing is bad enough, and I simply cannot imagine what you went through getting your nostril waxed !WHY nostril, I guess he couldn’t find a more painful spot !!!
Hope you recover soon from the physical and mental torture ;)

8 | hammy

June 25th, 2013 at 1:38 pm


Good to see you here, Soopzie. It’s been a while since the ordeal, but I have to say that I’m not completely over it. If I just see a candle, I will start yelling “I’ll talk, I’ll talk. Whatdoyouwannaknow??”… Kinda reflexive.

Comment Form

  • Kshama Chandan: Ha ha..Hilarious..I loved the last few lines even more coz I imagined the whole falling scene was laughing to myself while sitting at my office desk..
  • hammy: @sherrel: The weekend went as expected. I stood firm in my resolve until around 1 PM. We were invited to lunch at a friend's place. I
  • Sherrel: Hey Hammy, so how did the weekend go??? :-)

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