My cab paused a long time before a barbershop. The shop was cavernous and resembled the larger auto-garages on Indian roadsides. The wide width of the shop opened fully to the sidewalk; still, it was dark inside. A lone barber worked facing the street, standing behind his customer’s head. The customer lay supine head to toe, a perfect parallel to the ground, parallel to the street, perpendicular to the barber at his groin. Traces of lather stayed on the face. The barber cut hair on the side of the head that faced the street, with brisk strokes of the comb and expert clicks with scissors. All the while, he never looked at the head but at at the goings-on in the street, eyes flitting, body loose; the hands freely did their work. He looked less a barber than one strumming a guitar, left hand at the innermost fret, close to the strumming hand. In this very public place, he looked like he was performing a concert, solo.