Isit on a throne that lifts me high above the ground. Behind me is my loyal guardian, my father. He watches me as I face a giant mirror showing me my reflection.
The barber is an expert at his job. He uses a clipper that makes a twik-tak sound as he trims my hair. He grips it tightly with his right hand, moving its hands with his fingers over my head. He clamps my head with his left hand. He doesn’t let me move. I squirm and try to get away, scared of the clipper. He works with precision and speed, making me look tidy. I see his actions in the mirror. He stops and talks to my father. My father comes near and checks my hair.
In no time, I look like a different person. My hair is so short; it almost shows my skin. He stops suddenly. He circles around my chair, looking at me. The barber is happy with his work.
He sprays water around my head, neck, and ears with a bottle. He then opens a drawer behind him and takes out a sharp blade. I tremble with fear of what he is about to do. Then, he presses my head very hard, so I can’t move. Keeping my head still, holding it tightly firm, he shaves the edges neatly and gently. After a few minutes of this dangerous job, the barber stops. He opens a fragrance bottle and rubs it around my neck and the sides. When he rubs it where he held the blade, it burns. I am so relieved that this finishing part of my haircut is done.
Then he grabs a brush from the same drawer and cleans my head and face. Smiling, he takes off the white cloth around my neck. He opens a Vaseline bottle and rubs a bit of it on top of my head. He combs the little hair that is left, lifting it in the middle. Then he says, “There you go, I got you, little man”, and gives me a small pat on my shoulder. I rise from the high chair and walk two steps towards my father, who is now standing.
After paying the barber 25 cents, my father and I exit the barbershop. Making our way towards his parked bicycle, I settle onto the bicycle bar while he propels us forward along the bustling Kandy Road. The sensation of my newly trimmed hair fills me with delight, and I run my fingers through it, relishing the smoothness of the brushed strokes of my hair.
After reaching home, I promptly engage in my customary post-haircut ritual, heading straight for a refreshing bath. My shirt and pants find their place in the basket, and I am led to the water well after undressing. With skilled precision, my father retrieves water from the depths of the bucket, pouring the cool fresh water over me. He vigorously massages my scalp, ensuring any lingering hairs are dislodged. This process repeats for five buckets until he retrieves a vibrant red bar of Lifebuoy soap from its holder.
He diligently lathers the soap with firm hands, meticulously cleansing my legs, body, hands, face, and head. Head and face are his priority, removing any evidence of hair clippings. The suds from the soap irritate my eyes, prompting me to close my eyelids. Another bucket of water later, my vision returns, clear and unobstructed. Nine buckets in total pass, and I emerge from this thorough cleansing thoroughly refreshed and prepared for the comfort of home.
A Child of Curiosity How inherent inquisitiveness became a key driver in learning experiences. Denzil Jayasinghe · B orn in the mid-20th century, I am a product of the post-World War II era. My parents, who were teenagers when the war commenced, married in the 1950s. As a representative of the baby boomer generation, I was born under the astrological sign of Capricorn, the tenth sign of the zodiac. My birth took place at Zoysa Nursing Home, a renowned institution in Colombo, Sri Lanka, around 5 in the morning. Sri Lanka, known for its tropical climate, is a beautiful island nation south of India. This climate appealed to me, and I sought similar weather in my twenties, spending them in Dubai, where the winter resembles an Australian summer. Raised by religious parents, I held them in deep affection. However, the church teachings posed a paradox for a young mind, instructing one to love God more than one’s parents. I initially adhered to the Ten Commandments and other societal norms in ...
Demons and Devotion: A Family’s Pilgrimage Denzil Jayasinghe · “Demons and Devotion: A Pilgrimage to Tewatta” is a short story by Denzil Jayasinghe about a family’s pilgrimage to a holy site in Sri Lanka. The story follows Denzil, the eldest son, as he reluctantly accompanies his devout parents on this journey to celebrate their 25th wedding anniversary. Although initially sceptical, Denzil reflects on his childhood faith and his family's hardships. However, the pilgrimage turns unexpectedly when an encounter with a priest who claims a demon possesses Denzil creates tension and leaves him angry. T he air hung heavy with a solemnity that felt out of place for a silver wedding anniversary. Denzil’s father, whose pronouncements held the weight of scripture, declared, “We are going on a special trip to the holy place of Our Lady at Tewatta. This day, showing God’s blessings, will be a private event for our family.” On a recent arrival for a two-week holiday in Sri Lanka...
Shattered Innocence A story of a needle Denzil Jayasinghe · “Shattered Innocence. A Story of a Needle” by Denzil Jayasinghe is a short story told from the perspective of a lad who discovers their father injecting insulin . This discovery shatters his innocence as he grapples with the reality of his father’s diabetes and the fear and uncertainty it brings. The story explores themes of family, responsibility, and the challenges of facing difficult realities. T he pre-dawn light filtered through the window, casting a pale glow over a scene that shattered my world. We were lost in the quiet routine of getting ready — me for the apprenticeship, my siblings for school, and my father for his work. I wandered into my parents’ room, searching for the familiar black comb. What I found wasn’t the comb but a sight that froze me in my tracks. Father, stripped down to his white undies, his usually strong face creased with worry, was doing something… di...
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