I walked furtively in the semi darkness, as dusk slowly set in, with mild determination towards what I sought. Huddled in a corner between a closed hardware shop and the Chinese Sensei, the familiar whirling of red, blue and white lights signalled the end of my search: the Barbershop. Its stark white lights flickering avidly with the flitting shadows inside dancing and inviting me in.
As I tentatively pushed open its doors, it was as if a portal had opened into the Singapore of the 1970s, with old posters of cover girls and singers (most of whom would be my grandmother's age by now) haphazardly arranged along the wall. Ancient sounding music lingered in the backdrop, though played by a fairly modern looking CD player planted at the corner of the room. The floor, ceramic-tiled, was cracked at various places, each crack possibly telling an interesting story of its coming to existence.
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