Hairdressers Fight Caste Prejudice With Upscale Salons

Courtesy of Paul Fernandes A salon sign board in Bangalore, Karnataka.

K.Z. Kuriyan, a 25-year-old software engineer at a multinational company, frequents an upscale Bangalore salon for haircuts, facials, manicures and pedicures, as well as for the occasional hair coloring. “Looking good has always been a priority for me,” said Mr. Kuriyan, who spends a fifth of his paycheck on salon services. “Looking good makes me feel good.”

In the new India, grooming has become as much a male fixation as a female one, and the male vanity wave set off by urban Indians like Mr. Kuriyan has given the beauty industry a makeover.

In Bangalore, many hole-in-the-wall, two-chair, men-only barber shops have been renovated into swanky unisex salon and spas. At the multinational salon chain Jean-Claude Biguine, in a world of disposable kimonos and imported hair cosmetics, a haircut can cost as much as 1,500 rupees ($25). “People spend more on their hair and skin than on food and basic necessities,” said Vimal Sebastian, its business manager. “For looking good, price is no longer a barrier.”

Beyond improving the looks of young men, Bangalore's, and urban India's, increasingly narcissistic culture has had an unexpected, more profound effect on society. It has freed an entire generation of hairdressers from the burden of their caste tag, giving them dignity, even celebrity. Members of the traditional chaurika caste, who stood among the lower rungs of India's social order for doing “impure” hair work, are now much sought-after hair professionals.

“We are no longer known by the deroga tory barber or hajam terms,” said Ramesh Babu, 42, who has clipped men's hair for over two decades. Hajam is Urdu for barber. He now owns several salons and runs a luxury car rental service, often arriving in his personal Rolls Royce Ghost to trim clients' hair. “We want to eliminate these disparaging labels entirely.”

From the book ‘Shine Board Arts' by Paul Fernandes

Balakrishna Kambaya, 44, who comes from a traditional lineage of hairdressers, has also reaped both the social and economic rewards of the change in attitude toward his caste. A high school dropout, Mr. Kambaya can boast that his salons are now patronized by a Who's Who of Bangalore's politicians and businessmen.

It's a stark contrast from when his grandfather practiced the profession, making house calls in a village in Bangalore's outskirts. His customers - who were men, as women back then kept their hair long - always paid in kind, usually grain and vegetables.

Mr. Kambaya's father turned away from hairdressing to become a farmer, but Mr. Kambaya started working at the 180-square-foot Popular Hairdressers shop established by his brother in Bangalore's conservative Jayanagar neighborhood back in the day when men considered a haircut to be a monthly chore. The crowded single-room outlet was fitted with wooden chairs, long mirrors and a bench that served as a waiting area. It offered a total of three services: a haircut, shave and head massage.

Courtesy of Paul Fernandes A barber shop sign board in Bangalore, Karnataka.

But that was two decades ago, and since then men in urban India have become increasingly self-conscious of their appearance. “Today's man, whether software engineer or roadside vegetable vendor, believes he is a model,” said Mr. Kambaya. “Every man wants to look like a hero, a king.”

The trend has helped spawn three more Popular outlets and, more recently, an upscale gym as well, taking Mr. Kambaya from a trimmer of hair to a flourishing entrepreneur.

Mr. Kambaya pioneered several Bangalore firsts as he expanded his brother's tiny outlet into a branded chain. Popular was the city's first air-conditioned men's hair salon and the first to use hydraulic dentists' chairs. Also, over a decade ago, Mr. Kambaya introduced imported hair colors for men, saving legions from the messy, runny locall y made black dye. Hair dye has since became hair color, and Popular's 5-rupee haircut has risen to 200 rupees.

Mr. Babu was also a pioneer of sorts in the local hairdressing industry in making the profession more glamorous. Mr. Babu's grandfather set up Modern Hairdressers in the downtown hotspot Brigade Road several decades ago. In 1991, Mr. Babu took over the modest business and moved it into two of the city's swankiest members-only clubs. He changed the name to Inner Space Men's Salon.

“The clientele was changing, and I wanted a different identity,” said Mr. Babu. Indeed, a steady stream of the city's wealthy and fashionable seek out the snip of his deft scissors.

Countless superstitions about hair persist in Bangalore and elsewhere in modern India. Old-fashioned hairdressers are closed on Tuesdays as traditionally Indians considered cutting hair and nails on Tuesdays inauspicious. Many customers will still have a “cleansing” bath straight after a haircut.

But the past stigma about the profession is definitely fading. Proof is in Mr. Kambaya's thriving training classes for the younger generation of his caste people, where the emphasis is on polish and demeanor.  “The sessions will help them prosper in the stylish surroundings of high-end salons and reap the rewards of their inherited skill,” he said.

Mr. Kambaya wants his children to carry on his forefathers' professional legacy. His daughter, a management student, will start assisting him as soon as she is finished with school.

Mr. Babu said many of his caste from his generation have turned their backs on the traditional vocation out of shame. Some work for the Bangalore police or the local government. Mr. Babu, however, has a clear dream for his three young children: “I will teach them to cut and style hair. With that skill, they can flourish anywhere in the world.”

Saritha Rai sometimes feels she is the only person living in Bangalore who was actually raised here. There's never a dull moment in her mercurial metropolis. Reach her on Twitter @SarithaRai.