AUGUST 3 — For as long as I can remember, getting a haircut has been more than a routine chore. 

Since my school days, I have been visiting Indian barbershops. Even now, stepping into one carries with it a familiarity that is difficult to explain, as though something from an earlier time has quietly remained unchanged.

Outside, the familiar red, white and blue barber pole turns slowly, marking the entrance. As a teenager, I was fascinated by it, not knowing its origins, only sensing that it signalled a place different from the world outside. 

Even today, that gentle rotation feels like an invitation into a space where time moves a little differently.

Inside, very little has changed. Hindi songs, and occasionally Tamil melodies, drift softly through the shop. 

The scent of hair tonic and aftershave lingers in the air. Large mirrors line the walls, reflecting rows of chairs and the steady movements of the barbers at work. 

Bottles of cologne, talcum powder, razors and combs are arranged neatly on well-worn shelves. There is nothing elaborate about the setting. 

The floor is often scattered with freshly cut hair, and yet the place feels settled, almost lived in.

You walk in, greet the barber, take a seat and wait your turn. The barbershop has its own rhythm. 

The snip of scissors, the hum of electric clippers and the occasional scrape of a razor blend naturally with casual conversation.

“How are your children?”

“They’ve all grown up now.”

“Are you still driving your Honda Accord?”

The exchanges are simple, sometimes repeated, yet never entirely empty. 

Around them, conversations move easily from football to rising prices, from politics to family news, touching briefly on the concerns of the day before giving way to something else.

The customers reflect the diversity of Malaysia. Young boys shift nervously in their seats, unsure of what to expect from their first haircut. 

Office workers arrive during lunch breaks, checking the time as they wait. Elderly gentlemen, some of whom have been coming for decades, greet the barber not as a service provider, but as someone familiar.

And in all this, there is a quiet trust. With comb in one hand and scissors in the other, the barber works with a confidence that comes from years of repetition. A hairstyle chart may still hang on the wall.

“Which one?”

The customer points. “This one.”

The barber nods, and begins.

Watching him work, one realises that the craft is not only in the cutting, but in the understanding. 

Different hair types, face shapes and preferences are read almost instinctively. There is little need for explanation. 

Much of it has been learned through years of practice, and perhaps also through years of watching the same faces return.

Then comes the part many of us remember most.

The haircut is finished, loose strands brushed away. Without ceremony, the barber places both hands firmly on your shoulders and begins the familiar neck and shoulder massage. It is vigorous, sometimes unexpectedly forceful.

“Too strong?” he asks, smiling.

“No, no… just nice,” comes the reply, even as the body adjusts.

There is laughter, and for a brief moment, the exchange becomes less about the service and more about the shared familiarity of the experience.

Over the years, modern salons have appeared everywhere. They offer carefully designed interiors, coffee on request, online bookings and the latest trends. They have their place, and many people enjoy what they offer.

Yet I still find myself returning to the traditional barbershop, not because it is fashionable, but because something within it feels quietly continuous.

The barber who has cut your hair over the years remembers your preferred style without asking. 

He remembers when you first came as a student. He notices, without comment, the grey hairs that were not there before. 

At times, he may even ask about your family, not out of politeness, but because he has seen them grow alongside you.

It is only when one pauses to think about it that a different realisation begins to emerge: he has been present, in his own way, through the passing of your life.

He has seen little boys become young men, young men become fathers, and fathers return with their own children. 

He has witnessed changes that others might mark as milestones, yet for him, they appear gradually, one visit at a time. There is no announcement, no reflection, just the steady continuity of his work.

And perhaps that is why it is so easily overlooked.

We come in, sit down, exchange a few words and leave. The haircut is done, the day continues, and little thought is given to how many years have passed in the process. 

Yet someone has been there, quietly observing, remembering, and continuing his craft without interruption.

Looking back, I begin to realise that what takes place in that chair is not only a service, but a small record of time.

The barber does not preserve memories in the way we usually understand them. There are no photographs, no written accounts. Yet in the familiarity of his work, in the recognition of faces and the continuity of routine, something of those passing years is held.

Not deliberately, but inevitably. 

And perhaps the more unsettling thought is this: while he has been witnessing these changes, one haircut at a time, we ourselves may not have noticed them as clearly.

* Ng Kwan Hoong is an Emeritus Professor of Biomedical Imaging at the Faculty of Medicine, Universiti Malaya. A 2020 Merdeka Award recipient, he is a medical physicist by training but also enjoys writing, drawing, listening to classical music, and bridging the gap between older and younger generations. He may be reached at ngkh@ummc.edu.my 

** This is the personal opinion of the writer or publication and does not necessarily represent the views of Malay Mail.