Walk through any Indonesian neighbourhood today and you will hear the familiar buzzing of clippers, the snip of scissors, the chatter of men catching up on football scores. The barbershop — tempat cukur — is one of those rare Indonesian institutions that has survived political upheaval, economic crisis, and globalisation without losing its soul. But how did we get here? How did a wandering tradesman with a wooden chair strapped to his back become the air-conditioned studios of Kemang and Canggu?
The Kutu-Kutu Era (Pre-1960s)
Before Indonesia had a word for "barbershop", it had the tukang cukur — a wandering barber who walked kampung lanes carrying a kutu-kutu chair. The kutu-kutu was a folding wooden contraption, light enough to carry on the shoulder, sturdy enough to hold a grown man. The barber carried a small leather pouch containing hand-forged scissors, a straight razor, a strop, a cake of soap, and a single comb that he wiped on his sarung between clients.
There were no mirrors. The client trusted the barber completely — and the barber's reputation spread by word of mouth from one kampung to the next. Cut prices were paid in rice, eggs, or small coins. The trade was hereditary: a tukang cukur's son learned the craft by watching his father from the age of seven, took his first paying client at fifteen, and inherited the kutu-kutu chair at his father's death.
"My grandfather walked from Bandung to Cianjur and back every two weeks, cutting hair in villages along the way. He slept in surau (small prayer houses) and ate what the villagers gave him. By the time he returned home, he had earned enough to feed his family for a month."
— Bagus Pratama, BarberBox.id co-founder, recounting family history
The First Static Shops (1960s-1980s)
Indonesia's independence in 1945 and the economic stabilisation of the Sukarno and early Suharto years slowly changed the trade. As cities grew — Jakarta, Surabaya, Bandung, Medan — barbers began to settle. The kutu-kutu chair was set down permanently under a tree, then inside a small wooden stall, then inside a proper shop with a tin roof and a glass mirror imported from Europe.
The first generation of static barbershops were simple affairs: one chair, one mirror, one sink, and a row of photographs of the President and popular dangdut singers on the wall. The trade became formalised. Barbers began to specialise — some in men's cuts, some in children's cuts, some in the increasingly popular pompadour and slick back styles imported from American films.
This era also saw the arrival of the first electric clippers. Made by brands like Oster and Wahl (imported through Singapore), these early clippers were heavy, noisy, and prone to overheating — but they cut hair in half the time of scissors, and clients began to demand them. A barber without a clipper in 1975 Jakarta was a barber losing business.
The Krispis and Undercut Decades (1990s-2000s)
The 1990s brought two transformations. First, the rise of the krispis (Indonesian slang for "crispy") — a high-and-tight cut with the sides shaved close and the top textured with a styling powder or matte clay. Second, the influence of Korean and Japanese pop culture in the 2000s popularised the undercut — a cut where the sides and back are shaved very short while the top is left long and slicked back.
By the late 2000s, Indonesian barbershops had diversified into three distinct tiers:
- Street barbers (tempat cukur pinggir jalan): Tiny stalls along main roads, charging Rp 5,000-15,000 per cut. Often operated by a single barber with one mirror and one clipper.
- Mid-range shops (barbershop kelas menengah): Two to four chairs, air-conditioned, charging Rp 25,000-50,000. The backbone of the Indonesian barbershop industry.
- Boutique studios: Air-conditioned, with English names, serving coffee, and charging Rp 100,000-300,000. Mostly in Jakarta, Bali, and Surabaya, catering to young professionals and expatriates.
The Instagram Boom (2015-2020)
The launch of Instagram in 2010 transformed the Indonesian barbershop industry more than any single technology had before. Suddenly, a barber in Surabaya could showcase his fades to a national — even global — audience. The "before-and-after" carousel post became a barbershop marketing staple. Barbers with 50,000+ Instagram followers became local celebrities, attracting clients from across the country.
This era also saw the rise of barber supply stores — physical shops in Jakarta and online sellers on Tokopedia and Shopee — selling imported Andis, Wahl, and Oster clippers at prices working barbers could finally afford. The barrier to opening a boutique barbershop fell dramatically: an enterprising 25-year-old with Rp 30 million could rent a small space, buy one good clipper, and start cutting hair.
The Pandemic and Beyond (2020-Present)
COVID-19 hit Indonesian barbershops hard. During the PSBB (large-scale social restrictions) of 2020-2021, barbershops were classified as non-essential businesses and forced to close for months. Many small street barbers never reopened. The shops that survived did so by pivoting: selling grooming products online, offering home-service cuts (the barber travelling to the client), and producing tutorial content on YouTube and TikTok.
The post-pandemic years, however, have seen an unprecedented boom. By 2024, the Indonesian Ministry of Cooperatives and SMEs estimated the number of barbershops in major cities had grown by more than 40% since 2020. Young Indonesian men — once content to visit a hairdresser once every three months — now visit a barber every two to four weeks. The grooming industry, once dominated by women's salons, has found a powerful male counterpart.
What Hasn't Changed
For all this change, some things remain constant. The barbershop is still a place where men gather not just to cut their hair but to talk — about football, politics, business, family. The barber remains a confidant, a therapist of sorts, a man who knows the secrets of his neighbourhood because he has heard them all from the chair.
The tools have changed. The chairs have changed. The prices have certainly changed. But the relationship between an Indonesian man and his barber — that contract of trust, conversation, and craft — has remained remarkably intact for sixty years. Long may it continue.