If Poverty Had A Face…
It was Christmas eve. As I stood in front of the mirror, I suddenly realized I needed a haircut before the celebration. So, I grabbed my bike keys and started off to Mayilaudy, a nearby village where I can find a salon. Halfway there, it began to drizzle. I managed to stop at the nearest salon I could find to escape what felt like the showers of blessing. As I stepped in, I was taken aback. The place was empty, except for two North Indian men, seemingly waiting for customers. As I found out the salon is owned by them, I hesitated for a moment if I should enter or step back to find another place. It’s not that I hate their presence in this southern part of the country, but communication was always a challenge when explaining the style I wanted. Plus, my preconceived ideas about their hygienic practices - however unfounded - made me uneasy. The rain slowly picked up its pace and it began pouring. I had no other option but to surrender my head to the Northies. I initiated...