There is this Indian barber shop that my father used to go get his haircut or a shave. As his little girl I used to follow him there. The typical smell of the shaving cream and the rusty chair where my dad sat comfortably and gradually doze off while the barber with his swift knife skills shave my dad’s beard is still fresh in my mind. In the corner of the small shop, I will sat awkwardly praying hard that my dad would get up soon as the uncle is smiling creepily at me (he was just teasing me i think).
I park my car in front of the barber shop every Friday since last year as I’m teaching at a tution centre a few shoplots away. I have never taken a glance or look at that shop as I worry that it’ll remind me of him. It will remind me of him too much.
Today, after the class I was walking hurriedly to the car and I suddenly looked into the shop and saw the same uncle who used the smile creepily at me was shaving another old man’s beard. It was the same sight as I remembered from years ago. What I worried had happened. It reminded me of my dad. It reminded me of my dad too much. I stopped and looked for quite a while and snapped when I heard my students bid goodbye to me.
And that made me miss him a lot. Like a lot lot lot.