Short attention span could cost you a lot of things in life; job interviews, romantic dates, a good movie plot with several nuances, a game of chess where an aggressive little pawn is just a bait, a moment that could lead to a kiss, the list goes on …

I have an old joke that I wrote a few years ago about my attention span.

Ready? Here it is:

Me: You know, I have the attention span of a goldfish.

She: What?

Me: What?

And jokes aside, the accuracy of that statement is not too farfetched. In fact, let me tell you this, the repercussions of attention deficit are one scary, yet trivial and often overlooked cross to bear. And I mean for the society.

Don’t agree?

I have one word (that should have been two words) for you: Barbershops!

Yes, hear me out.

There are things that you can browse through with your eyes wide open, brain shut and face stoned and it won’t matter. You could after all always redo them. Didn’t catch the information the first time? No problem! Ask Siri, or Alexa, or Google (one of these unidirectional, supremely incompetent, annoying assistants, who are fun if you are a first-time user and highly annoying the moment you understand their limitations. They are calculator equivalents of those futuristic robots from sci-fi movies) to repeat it. You bought them after all; they are your slaves. Well, at least until they have eavesdropped and acquired all your personal information only to use against you. Then you are their slave. Okay, fine! CCC (Classic conspiracy cunt) here! But then there are real life things that don’t have an undo or a re-do button. One such place where all the scary events could unfold are barbershops.

Yes, I am all pro for removing televisions from all the barbershops across the world. Now, I may sound like I am a radical revolutionist, but I am not. I have never candle marched or paraded next to a parliament, but I swear on my receding grey hairline, if there is a march for removing televisions from barbershops, I will lead it. It’s about time.

Fuck it!

Give me a ribbon (I don’t know why it’s required, but give it to me anyway) and a placard that says: Shave my head, but save my head!

You see, there are several reasons behind this kind of paranoia. First of all, these barbers are working and they need to focus on their work. Just like the entire world, they shouldn’t be distracted by a medium of visual entertainment while they are working. They should be allowed to watch the TV during their lunch break or in between haircuts. I mean, how many of us have MTV playing next to our workstations? I bet, even MTV folks don’t have MTV playing next to their workstations; they are probably watching some other music channel that plays more music and less reality shows.

Besides, the television is installed for the customers, but the poor customer never gets to watch the channel of his choice. He looks around for the remote and when he can’t find it, he picks up the newspaper that has entertainment pages missing or magazines that are starched for some reason.

Secondly, you are putting your neck in jeopardy every time you are getting your face shaved. There is always a great chance of getting your Adams apple sliced open.

Okay, consider this, you are in the middle of a Sunday evening shave and one of his favorite Gujarati songs starts playing. The barber has an undiagnosed ADHD. He confuses his razor for a Dandiya prop.

Bam! Glisshhh!

You’re bleeding.

Next thing you know, you’re looking at your own body lying on the recliner. Mouth half-open, half -shut. Hitler moustache. The white bib around your neck is now red. You notice your breath, as it becomes less and less frequent. The light at the end of the tunnel is brighter than ever before, and your guardian angels are calling you aboard; father, son and the holy spirit. All their arms are extended and inviting. Matter of fact, one of them is holding your favorite candy, and before anyone at the shop calls out for help, your soul drifts away into the lower vibrations of hell.

Would you like that?

Well, I guess that’s not the right question. A better question perhaps would be, would you like to be killed on a Sunday? By someone who removes people’s nostril and armpit hair for a living? That’s just a low-profile death. You die as a joke, but nobody is laughing, because you are dead. More than your life, that’s a joke wasted.


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