It’s become a routine for me. Every time I need a hair cut I stop my motorbike at the road and peer into my neighborhood Indian barber shop to make sure it’s not crowded. I don’t like to sit and wait for three people  in front of me, so if I can’t get in right away, I leave and try again later.

This afternoon, I pulled up on my motorbike and glanced into the shop. My barber waved me in, holding up one finger to tell me that the man currently in the barber’s chair was his only customer. Good timing, indeed.

I dismounted, stashed my helmet and headed towards the door. As I got closer, I noticed that my normal barber wasn’t there. Instead, there was a man which looked like a cleanly shaven head covered with a cap with a cleanly shaven upper lip.

New barber, I thought to myself. He said ‘hello’ as I entered, and I kept looking at him and his cleanly shaven upper lip. Could that really be my barber? I looked closer and thought, no way, he looks completely different. 

I knew I would know when he started cutting my hair. If he knew what to do, then obviously it was him.

The other customer left and we chatted a little as I kept staring at his remarkably new looking face in the mirror. I don’t remember my barber having a small overbite. His eyes looked different, and then I tried to imagine him with a big, bushy mustache. Perhaps.

And then the cut began. He asked me no questions about what kind of cut I wanted. He knew.

It was at that moment that I realized that I could never cut it as a detective. Hitler could have shaved off his mustache and asked me for tea, and I probably would have accepted. I can’t recognize anybody without their mustache if they normally had a mustache. It really is a wonderful disguise. For me, at least, the only feature I remember of a person with a mustache is the mustache. (But I’ve never been accused of being someone who noticed a lot of detail.)

And then it all made sense. Yesterday was Thaipusam, and I remember that the barber shop was closed yesterday when I drove by.

“You were closed for Thaipusam yesterday?” I asked.

“Yes, only one day. I went to pray,” he said.

Everything clicked. He shaved his head for the Hindu holiday, mainly celebrated by the Tamil community.

He finished the cut, giving me the customary pats on the back as he turned the chair around. I gave him the cash and told him I’d see him next time. By then, I’m fairly sure his mustache will be back.