'..Ayna-e amar mukh, du aanar udgrib saloon-e...
Ayna-e ama r mukh - koroti porjonto dekha jae...'
Having a hircut in a "salon" (earlier i used to fit myself in the Italian arrangment, if you know whta i mean) is one of the most organically motivating and insecured experiences of life. The man with a sharp tool, a man who's name is hardly known to you, a man who's skills are hardly heard of, a man who is hardly among our known faces - is just caressing your outgrowths to shape, to make you look good. i mean, what gives you all your heart's support and reckoning that the man can take care of your head and skin and hair and blood and flesh to smooothen you to almost that is close to image perfect ??? He touches you, caress through the narrow valleys and allies of the corners of your face and shoulder to do the job.
Another imperative of a "salon" is its frightening aspect of the mirror images. It's a room with a view - a view with the climax of Bruce Lee's Enter the Dragon - where you find multiple unknown mid close shots of a familiar body but with different souls. One is busy entangling it's shoulder, another is only visible from the rear and a few is only visible on a profile with a split-face effect. You can never catch them in their entirety. All the images are brittle, they lack consistency in their approach, they are loosely joined only by coincidence. And i wonder why.
I feel my invisibility is multiplied.
i feel you are not there to tell me what's going on.
i feel you are not there.