Dhaka's barbershops: Evolution from bowl-cut to Ronaldo fade

For decades Jibon Krishna Shil's barbershop, tucked in a narrow alley at the mouth of a bazar, was every Bangladeshi salon in miniature.

One wobbling ceiling‑fan, two squeaky chairs and a single waiting stool; classic film songs leaked from a cassette player while customers argued sport and politics.

When Jibon passed away, the shutters came down for good. His son, Paban, looked at the flaking signboard and shrugged: "This cheap salon won't catch a fly any more. A new age is coming."

Paban was right.

Fast‑forward scarcely 15 years and the landscape has flipped.

Air‑conditioners hum where the ceiling‑fan once groaned, chessboard tiles gleam beneath LED spot‑lights, and the phrase "gents parlour" is as common as tea‑stall. A basic trim that cost Tk60 in 2010 now commands Tk150.

How did we get here?

From Comfort to Rose Style

The era of the gents parlour took off after 2010, says Palash Ahmed.  

In 2009 Palash was nineteen, living in Mirpur. "Learn to cut hair – there's money in it, visas are easy," he recalls his cousins in Malaysia and the Gulf urging.

As the family calls grew louder, he took a job at a salon in Mirpur 11.

Nineteen days of sweeping floors and rinsing combs later, a "big brother" whisked him to Comfort Salon in Mirpur‑10 – his first taste of air‑conditioning and a wage of just Tk20 a day.

"I only wanted to learn," he says. "Comfort had no facials, no massage, only haircuts and shaves."

Three years on, armed with loyal customers, the reluctant apprentice opened his own shop instead of chasing a migrant dream.

The calculation was bold: Tk13 lakh for 550 sq ft, funded by two clients and Tk4 lakh bank loan and a sleeping partner.

Aluminium partitions, a receptionist's desk, a sofa‑lined waiting bay and a hundred spotlights launched Rose Style Gents Parlour.

He spaced five hydraulic chairs a full four feet apart, marble tiles framed a circular sink offering hot and cold water, every stylist received a personal tray of combs, scissors, trimmers and brushes.  

Savlon stood beside aftershave, gels alongside colour sachets, neck tissues beside paper napkins – visible proof of hygiene for wary customers.

When the lease ended, Rose Style spilled downstairs and upstairs to 1,750 sq ft, twelve chairs, plus manicure‑pedicure and spa bays.  

Prices rose in step: Tk70 in 2013, then Tk80, Tk100 and now Tk150 for a plain cut – extra for special styles.

Palash says the biggest shift was respect. "When there was no trimmer, cutting hair was art. Now the clipper does half the work, but people call us 'stylists'. The word itself lifts the job."

The designer who built a laboratory

Ten years ago, across Mirpur, fashion designer Azizur Rahman Tanvir surveyed the noisy, cramped barbershops and imagined something calmer.

When a tenant vacated his family's first‑floor flat, he skipped a new renter and filled the rooms with mirrors instead.

Thus Hair Lab began: black‑and‑white walls, five roomy chairs (though eight would have fit) and a toy‑car seat for children.  

Tanvir treats his barbers like partners – running workshops on trends he spots online, then splitting earnings 60‑40 in his favour.

To catch the eye he covered Hair Lab's glass front with bold vector art rather than celebrity posters – an idea now copied across Mirpur.  

"We swap the artwork two or three times a year," he says. "Instant fresh look, no repainting."

Back in 2015 each chair cost Tk36,000. Since then Hair Lab has added facial steamers, scalp cleaners and spa beds.

Tanvir believes men's salons are "moving towards corporate style, but not a full industry yet – big money is coming, yet the trade still feels half family craft, half modern business."

Senior stylist Alauddin, feels the change most in respect. "People used to look down on barbers,' he says. 'Now we call ourselves hair stylists with no shame."

His kit packs several clippers, a nose‑hair trimmer and clips that speed scissor‑work. Fashion changes monthly – tapers, mullets, you name it – pulled straight from Google images.

Mirror, mirror – who's the cleanest?

Near Mirpur's Benarasi Palli stands Mirror Gents Parlour: a tidy manager's room with stylist business cards, a menu of every service, and nine soft chairs that tilt at a button – each worth Tk60,000.

Manager Mainuddin sums up the aim: "Customers should walk out relaxed."

Staff wear uniforms, tools are sterilised nightly, towels washed every other day and loose hair swept up between clients.  

Senior barber Wasim earned Tk1,700 on 12 April after the shop's share. His menu spans Tk200 catalogue cuts, Tk100 shaves, Tk450–1,500 hair treatments, Tk600–2,000 facials, Tk450 manicures and even Tk8,500 wedding packages.  

"People want healthy skin, not just style," he explains.

Salon names like Baan Thai, Hair Port, Mens Planet, Persona Adams, Truefitt & Hill and Razors & Scissors now compete to add comfort – swapping alum sting for cucumber scrubs, wooden stools for Wi‑Fi and espresso.

Is it an industry yet?

Both Palash and Tanvir trace the boom to the early 2010s, when Dhaka's elite still trusted only five‑star hotel barbers.  

A decade later smart, clean salons appear in every neighbourhood. Clippers halve cutting time, social media pours in style requests, and a Tk2 lakh refit can pay for itself quickly if ten chairs each earn Tk1,000 a day.

Costs rise just as fast – imported chairs, German clippers, Korean dye – pushing owners to upgrade constantly.  

One thing is clear: respect has risen. Barbers are "stylists", trainees are "juniors", and customers – from day labourers to tech workers – expect pampering.

Regulation is still light, but one infection scare could destroy a salon's online reputation overnight. Bigger investments and nascent chains suggest an official barbers' association is only a matter of time.

The snip ahead

For now, Dhaka's gents parlours face the mirror, scissors poised. Their reflection is part heritage, part high‑gloss future.

The change did not announce itself with fireworks. One fan, two chairs and a waiting stool have not vanished—they have simply evolved, like the haircuts themselves.

Bangladesh's barbers have claimed a new identity: craftsmen, entrepreneurs, and quiet custodians of style.  

Had Jibonda lived to witness the makeover, he might have nodded in approval.