Five Rolls of Toilet Paper, a Haircut, and a Shave

I got my first haircut in Bangladesh today. Today is Victory Day, a national holiday commemorating Bangladesh’s victory over Pakistan back in 1971, and a popular day for haircuts by all appearances. The first barber shop I went to had all three chairs full and a line of people waiting. When I came looking for a trim they waived me on down the street to the next shop. There, there were also three chairs full and some people waiting, but they told me to go ahead and take a seat to wait my turn. That gave me a chance to take in the scene a little.

In the first chair was a teenage boy. Next to him was an older man getting a haircut and beard trim. In the last chair was another kid. The older man was the first to finish up and I watched carefully to see what he paid. One of the chief concerns anytime I do something new is the question of what to pay? I know a hair cut here should be fairly inexpensive. But what does that mean? Our friend Donny recently went for a haircut and received a haircut + shave + facial. The process took a painstaking 2 hours to complete -way more than he had anticipated. Afterwords the hairstylist declined to state a price. He just asked Donny to pay what he thought it was worth. That’s always the worst. Donny gave 200 Taka. He later checked with Sujit, the cook, about the price. Sujit said it was a little high, but not ridiculous. That was in upscale Baridhara. Here in Rajabajar I was expecting to pay 100-150. The old man gave 30 Taka. Hmmm, glad I saw that.

Next to draw my attention was the teenage boy in the first chair. When the stylist was just about finished - at the point where they ask, “is everything okay?” – he didn’t ask the boy, he asked the boy’s friend (brother? cousin?). The cut looked fine but the friend found something to be critical over. So the stylist took a few more inconsequential snips at the boy’s head before pronouncing him finished and waiving me to take his seat.

As I was sitting there getting the towel wrapped around my neck and water splashed on my head, I continued to watch in the mirror as the two boys finished their transaction. I couldn’t follow most what was being said, but I did understand the numbers. The boy who’d received the cut was silent while his friend did the talking. He kept saying, “something something 20 something something.” To which the guy running the shop replied, “no something 30 something something something.” Apparently they were disputing the price of the other kid’s haircut. The argument gained volume. The man pushed the kid into a chair. The kid stood up. The argument continued. They took it out into the street. More shouting. Is this going to come to blows? They moved out of my line of sight. Quieter now…eventually the shop manager came back in - incident apparently over. Okay, I definitely have to pay more than 20.

Apparently unfazed by the drama, the stylist went to work on my hair giving it a nice trim. Then he splashed water on my face and put some yellow face cream all over it. Then he put some lotion over my stubble, then some shaving cream, and out came the straight razor – Yikes! It was my first experience being shaved by a tool that could cut my nose clean off (or slit my throat) if put to the task. The thought was somewhat disconcerting. I also have a bit of a cold, which made the process even less comfortable. My main concern was trying not to cough anytime the blade was in contact with my face. Thankfully, the stylist was a skilled man and apparently harbored me no ill will. I survived both rounds (he shaved me twice) unscathed.

When the time came, I asked the price. “Sixty,” he said in English. Apparently the facial and extra shave is worth the price of a haircut. Or it’s just another example of the “bideshi dam.” Either way, the price (less than a dollar) was fine with me. I, somewhat guiltily explained that I only had a 500 Taka note to pay with, and could he make change? Yes, of course. He passed the bill down to the shop manager who asked how much? Someone else said “ponchash” or “fifty” and the manager set to digging up enough change. Another customer said, “pach-sho diYe” (500 he has given you!) and rolled his eyes in disgust. The manager, unfazed, handed me 450 Taka in change. I could have made out like a bandit with the extra 10 Taka and everyone would have been happy enough (for all I know the stylist meant 50 but got his English confused), but I went ahead and handed back 10 Taka to assuage my guilt at having paid with a 500. It was received without comment.

One the way home I stopped at one of the local convenience shops – there are about 3 on every block – for some toilet paper. I said to the clerk (in Bangla) that I would take 5 rolls of toilet paper. He looked at me rather blankly and with a delayed reaction said (also in Bangla) “five?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Now?” he said, “you will take five rolls of toilet paper?”
There was a pause. I’m waiting for him to hand me the toilet paper. But he’s just standing there staring at me. Hmm, maybe his statement was a statement not a question. Maybe he just told me to take five rolls of toilet paper out of that sack hanging on the wall. I take the sack down off the wall, pulling the nail it was hanging from out with it (oops), and start fumbling with the knot to get at the toilet paper. The man sticks out his hand. I hand him the sack. He opens it and pulls out five rolls, stacking them in plain view.
“Five?” he says, pointing to the rolls.
“Yes.” I say. Why is this hard? Surely language is not this issue this time. I guess no one ever buys five rolls of toilet paper at one time.
“What’s the price?”
“sixty-five”

Five rolls of toilet paper cost more that a haircut and a shave… I pay and walk away.