After much negligence, my hair demanded it be taken care of. So I found myself seated at my aunt’s lovely salon, a book in tow, getting the much needed hair treatment done.
Amongst the pedicured feet and immaculately soft hands, I felt rather country cousinish. I took a minute to see myself in the mirror. The trendy boy cut had transformed into a shoulder length fritzed out mess within a year. The face was alright but could have glowed. Little hints of dark circles could be visible (all thanks to a sleepless night spent in desperation to create a new character for a new novel).
I always thought I looked alright. I had lost a considerable amount of weight (I can never stop showing off!) I actually tried to wear pretty clothes (most of the time) and yet, these women around me with their flawless skins (before the treatments! How God how?) made me feel miserable. I suddenly felt ugly. I wanted to hide behind that magazine, tuck my uncoloured toes under the chair and disappear.
I survived. Yes, I survived a hair treatment and begged my Auntie (did I mention this cool Auntie runs her own show, a fantastic salon at an affordable price?) to cut my hair. ‘You mean trim?’ she asked as she fidgeted with another girl’s hair (which was shining like a clinic all clear ad!), looking for the perfect length.
‘Nah, real cut. Something funky, something drastic!’
So here’s the thing. I was happy being the plain jane I am until I started losing weight. Every once in a while, I feel like transforming myself, doing something drastically new with myself, so that I don’t get bored when I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I like to shock myself and those around me. (Ask the brother, the sister and the best friend. They suffer a shock ever so often!)
So, I told auntie to go ahead and give my hair a nice chop. ‘You want to ask your Mom?’ she asked me.
‘Ask what?’ I was feeling small enough, this made me feel like a kid!
‘Whether its okay to cut it that short?’
‘She mentioned that they are hunting for a boy. Usually, girls start growing their hair…’
I didn’t wait for her to complete. Okay, so I am looking to meet someone. What’s the length of my hair got to do with it?
‘Whoa! I don’t want permission. I am okay. Can we cut it now, please?’
She lovingly handled my tresses. I love my boyish, zero maintenance bob cut by the way. As I adored my new hair, an ‘accomplished’ woman sat down next to me.
My aunt trimmed her hair and suggested that she chop off her hair.
‘Your ends are splitting and the hair quality is pretty bad. A good hair cut will change that,’ my aunt explained.
‘Let me ask my husband you know. I can’t cut it unless he’s okay.’
I suddenly felt awesome. I felt independent and I didn’t give a tiny rat’s a*se about my non pedicured feet or the unlovely poise. I had a brain of my own, and I was living my life how I wanted it.
PS: For my argumentative Aunt. Letting your husband know you’re getting a hair cut and inviting suggestions is very very cute. Agreed. But waiting for his ‘permission’? Non-cute!