BANDAR Baru Bangi isn't exactly where you'd expect to stumble upon small miracles. But walk into Mr. D Hair Studio and you might just find one. Tucked away in a corner of a shoplot where the larger space is given over to a bustling carwash, the studio feels almost like an afterthought — until you step inside.
This is no ordinary barbershop. It's a haven where parents of children on the spectrum bring their little ones for a haircut — a feat that few hairdressers have the skill, patience and heart to accomplish.
The walls lining the narrow walkway to the salon are crowded with signs and photos meant for a much larger space, but one stands out: a list of rules for parents bringing children on the autism spectrum, or as Dharmalingam Manickam, better known as Mr D, calls them, kanak-kanak syurga (children from heaven).
The rules are equal parts practical advice and quiet reassurance: Don't stress. Share your worries. Help your child stay calm. Step into their world, see it through their eyes and most importantly, love them with patience.
He credits his sister — his first teacher, as he puts it — as his inspiration. The list ends with Mr. D's signature line: "Don't worry, Atuk will do the best." It's the kind of grandfatherly wisdom that instantly puts you at ease; a promise that you —and your child — are in safe hands.
Faded posters of Tan Sri P. Ramlee and the late Pas spiritual leader Tan Sri Nik Abdul Aziz Nik Mat smile benignly from one wall, while a sign reading "Zone No Stress" offers a gentle reminder: whatever's weighing you down, best leave it outside.
A framed photo of a smiling woman in a red sari catches my eye, labelled in Dharmalingam's careful script: "Mr D's Sister (Autism)." Nearby, his hairdressing diploma hangs beside a photo of a younger Dharmalingam, dapper in a hat and bowtie. A handwritten poem from his daughter hangs in another corner, with one line that tugs at the heart: "Without you, Pa, I wouldn't be the woman I am today".
The whir of a hairdryer blends with music from the radio, creating a lively hum that fills the room. The colours and sensory overload may feel dizzying at first,
but here's the thing — it's not about you.
This whimsical space serves a clear purpose: to create a safe and joyful experience for children on the spectrum, turning a potentially stressful haircut into an adventure.
Alongside the standard black salon chairs facing well-worn mirrors, miniature toy cars serve as seats for younger clients. A basket of toys sits nearby, ready to entertain, while colourful fans taped to the walls spin lazily overhead. Dinosaurs with tufts of hair, toy trucks and cars cling to the walls like quirky decorations.
From the ceiling, masks of Stormtroopers, Minions, Iron Man and The Hulk peer down like silent guardians. On a glass display shelf, superhero figurines frozen mid-action and arranged haphazardly add to the chaotic charm. Forget the idea of a carefully curated design — everything here is colourful, mismatched and feels like it was decorated by a child on a sugar rush.
A long wooden bench lines one side of the room, where parents sit, waiting anxiously as Dharmalingam and his son, Sivarajah, carefully attend to their children. It's only 10.30am but the studio is already buzzing with activity.
At one end of the salon, Sivarajah is talking to a young man in the chair and doesn't mince his words. "We can't do anything about the balding. It's hereditary," he says, adding: "but we can style your hair to cover the spot."
At the young man's nod, he trims and styles with practiced ease. Less flamboyant than his father, he still leaves an impression with his handlebar moustache, coiffed hair and printed ochre shirt.
But it's impossible to miss the diminutive figure on the other side, gleefully waving a gold-papered hairdryer. Dharmalingam cuts a striking figure in his three-piece ensemble: a black coat with an autism badge and a name tag reading Atuk Mr D, Konsultan (Rambut) Kanak-kanak Istimewa ((Grandpa Mr D, hair consultant for children with special needs)), a red sequined vest, silver sequined tie, diamante brooches, black jeans with dangling chains and a turban crowned with a flamboyant gold brooch that simply reads Mr D. Then there's his imposing grey handlebar moustache and luxuriant beard, of course. He's like the Willy Wonka of hair, though he bristles at being called a barber.
'DON'T CALL ME A BARBER'
"I don't like the word 'barber', you know…" he says, leaning forward conspiratorially. "I prefer 'designer' or 'hairstylist' because 'barber' feels outdated."
Continuing, he adds: "Think about it: a guy cooking in a restaurant, you'd call him a cook. But you wouldn't walk into a big hotel restaurant and call the guy a cook, right? He's a chef. There's a big difference. One is untrained and the other is trained."
A rose by any other name may still be a rose, but for Dharmalingam, perception is everything. "Call me a hair designer," he insists. "Or a hairstylist! The profession needs to be redefined. Only then will people see you in a professional light."
His father, he shares, was a hairstylist. "I spent my childhood watching him work in his salon at Jalan Cochrane, Kuala Lumpur," he says with quiet pride. "He had loyal customers because he was good at what he did. He was a true professional! He even worked in the glitzy world of entertainment, styling the hair of actors and singers."
He shakes his head wryly, recalling how his father was against him becoming a barber. "Dia tak suka I buat kerja dia sebab dia tahu betapa susah kerja hairstylist." He pauses, translating softly: "He didn't like me doing his job because he knew how hard it was. Back then, it was so difficult to cari makan (earn a living). You earned maybe 30 to 50 sen per haircut. What could you do with that? He had a big family to support. But he dedicated his life to his work. I respected him so much."
There isn't a free moment for Dharmalingam to continue the conversation. The little shop is bustling now, as a couple of parents walk in with their children in tow. He rises from the barber's chair and greets them warmly.
Just moments later, the customer Sivarajah had been tending to steps out of the chair, hair neatly coiffed, bald spot expertly concealed. Dharmalingam hugs him and tells me with a smile that the young man has been a regular for a couple of years now. "Our customers are like family!" he declares, eyes sparkling beneath his spectacles.
CHILDREN FROM HEAVEN
"Don't force him!" Dharmalingam chides a parent carrying a screaming child into the salon. "Just leave him be. You walk in and he'll eventually follow behind…"
Sitting down for a haircut is something many take for granted, but for those with autism, it can be a daunting experience. The hair designer explains that children and young people on the spectrum often find haircuts distressing because of the sensory challenges they face.
"This means that when an autistic person is having their hair cut, the sensation of hands running through their hair, strands landing on their face or body, and even the sound of scissors can cause real distress," he says.
"Some hairdressers refuse to cut the hair of autistic children because of how they scream or react," he adds, adding: "But I'm trying to get the message out there: don't turn them away."
Dharmalingam has a few tricks up his sleeve and he's not afraid to use them. A stash of lollipops appears, toys are brought out and, best of all, a bottle of bubbles with a wand is uncapped. He blows gently, sending shimmering bubbles floating into the air, catching the boy's attention.
He gently runs the clippers and a hairbrush over the boy's hair. The child whimpers, uneasy, but the 72-year-old remains patient, taking his time before attempting the trim. "I need to get him used to the feeling," he explains softly, "so he knows there's nothing to fear."
As he carefully tends to the child, he looks up at the parents and remarks: "You're lucky, you know, to have a kanak-kanak syurga — a child of heaven. We're not here to teach them anything. They're here to teach us how to be better people."
He continues, voice thick with emotion. "My late sister was autistic. Back then, people didn't understand. She couldn't talk or express herself, and when she was angry, she'd pinch or kick. It was hard, but I understood. She was frustrated, unable to voice her feelings. That is why children like her act out."
Dharmalingam shares, eyes distant: "She loved me in a way that felt so pure. To me, she was like an angel. She wouldn't get into any car except mine. She'd hug me, kiss me, and wait for me to come home, no matter how late. The moment she heard my car, she'd shout, 'Annei! Annei!' and only then would she sleep," he says, voice softening. "She passed away at 45. I miss her every day."
LASTING LEGACY
The salon is nearing chaos now. Screams pierce the air, punctuated by the cries of children as anxious parents hover close. Dharmalingam and Sivarajah move swiftly, their hands full. They're ready to adapt to whatever the children need, often crouching, kneeling or even lying on the floor, scissors in hand, as a child clings desperately to a parent.
"Good boy! Good job!" Sivarajah murmurs as he carefully trims the hair of a tearful boy. "Jangan takut! (Don't be afraid!)," Dharmalingam reassures, before slipping a lollipop into another child's small hand.
It's clear that years of experience have shaped their ability to handle such a challenging job with care and patience. Whether it's calming a tearful child or finding small ways to build trust, their approach is rooted in empathy and understanding. This doesn't come easily — it's a skill honed over decades of hard work, resilience and an unwavering commitment to their craft.
"I began my designing profession at 33," recalls the older man. "It was quite late for a man to switch careers, especially coming from a stable job at Telekom. But God somehow arranged it that way. I was hesitant at first, but my wife believed in me. She told me I could do it."
Dharmalingam began helping at his father's salon after the latter suffered a stroke and eventually took over the business. "I still have the keys to my father's salon," he reveals, eyes glistening with tears.
In what feels like a stroke of serendipity, Sivarajah, too, left his job at Telekom to join his father in the salon. "I've seen how my father struggled in the business and eventually I started helping out. I wasn't interested at first, but watching him work and seeing his dedication made me want to carry it on," the 46-year-old says quietly.
The journey has been far from smooth. During the Covid-19 pandemic, the shop was forced to shrink to a fraction of its original size. "We had to convert the rest into a carwash," Sivarajah admits.
Adding, he shares: "It was a survival move. We were struggling to make ends meet, and hair salons were among the last businesses allowed to reopen during the lockdown."
His father, however, took it hard. "He didn't speak to me for two days!" confides Sivarajah, chuckling, though it doesn't quite hide the weight of those uncertain times.
Despite the challenges, they're determined to keep the business going for as long as they can. "This is what I've been gifted with… to help these children. I love what I do and I'm a happy man!" exclaims Dharmalingam. Beside him, Sivarajah looks on with a mix of exasperation and quiet affection.
The two are as different as night and day — the steady, reserved son and his flamboyant, extroverted father — yet they share a common purpose: to create comfort and trust for everyone who walks through their door.
Here, a haircut is more than just a trim — it's an act of love. For children on the spectrum, anxious parents and everyday customers, the studio is a refuge where chaos gives way to calm. At its core is Dharmalingam — part grandfather, part magician and all heart — turning simple gestures into extraordinary moments of connection.
MR D HAIR STUDIO
Where: 24, Jalan 3/70, Seksyen 3 Bandar Baru Bangi, 43650 Bandar Baru Bangi, Selangor
Opening Hours: 10am until 9pm. Closed on Tuesdays.