For as long as I can remember, I have had a complex relationship with my hair.
I have my fair share of “dreadful” hair days even today, when nothing on earth can possibly drag me out of the house, programs of wine tasting / shopping notwithstanding.
Then I have the days when all I can think of is going the bald way, or getting them shorn like new army recruits. Between these days of insanity, I also have the my-hair-refuses-to-grow-no-matter-what-product-I-use-on-it days, the cribbing-about-my-lackluster-hair days, and the plain I-just-don’t-like-my-hair days, interspersed with the four times a year the-jerk-at-the-salon-cut-my-hair-too-short moan.
Way back in school, I was resigned to my curly, unmanageable mop of hair, held in place with what could only be a zillion hair clips, and which would, invariably fly pell-mell, when I would shake my ringlets. An incident in my secondary primary school is still etched in my otherwise muddled, amnesiac, absent-minded head, is of my classmates, who, for want of a pen stand, decided that the curls on my hair were the perfect place to keep their pens / pencils. Imagine my surprise (and the teacher’s displeasure) when a couple of pencils and / or pens (I fail to remember which), darted across my desk onto the cold, tiled floor, when I tossed my mane….distracting the entire class from a surprise test…let’s just say that I had more to worry about that day than just my poor score at the test…
College was the time which unleashed all my pent-up creativity with my hair. Styles came and went. Bangs, pony-tails, feather-cuts, pinned-back - you name it. Various hues also passed their fair share across my otherwise, natural chestnut-brown hair. (Long live hair mascaras – that was our favorite refrain). One evening, when my name was boomed on the PA System, announcing that I had a visitor, I came sprinting down the stairs, two at a time. As good luck would have it, I met a chum on the way, who intimated me about my father’s arrival – her one look at my brinjal-colored hair had me sprinting back upstairs to my room, dash to the shower, shampoo and towel in hand. 3.5 minutes later, I was transformed from hippie hell’s own aubergine-haired child to presentable teenager. Whew! That I had a serious case of the sneezes, oh well! That’s quite another story. Atishooooo!!!
And then one day in college, I decided – enough was enough. Curly was ugly. Period.
Chop chop chop, the stylist snipped “em off with barely-concealed glee. I hoped they would grow – glossy and poker-straight, and look straight from the pages of the fashion glosses we pored over for hours. I couldn’t have been more wrong! The hair grew back – oh yes. BUT CURLIER THAN EVER! Much to my utter disgust.
Next in line was the last solution left in the book - permanent straightening. What followed were the mandatory visits to nearby salons of repute. The decision had been made – curly was no longer what I wanted. It was poker-straight hair, all the way.
And no – even the teeny-weeny wave wouldn’t do.
The day dawned – appointments had been made well in order. The night before, I stared and stared at the mirror, asking myself if I would miss my curls, and all that tossing around of ringlets…but my mind was set. Punctual me arrived bang on time…
5 hours in the salon, and when I emerged, gone were the curls and waves. I had given the no-no to the stylist, who insisted that feathered bangs would look grrrrrreat on me. The glossy hair all over my head felt nothing less than great. However, I was still uncertain about how I looked.
With unsure steps, I descended the stairs. It being evening time, the small box-shaped market was teeming with people. While crossing a display window at a jeweller’s, I glimpsed a young woman, walking with unsure steps. Her hair looked great though.
She smiled back. A dimple sparkled. Her cheeks flushed, she tossed her tresses slightly.
And walked on, a spring in her step, renewed confidence written boldly over her face.
