As an urban independent woman, if you ask me what this country urgently needs apart from clean toilets, a rape free society and gawkish salesmen at lingerie stores, my answer would be a hair academy that trains people to not mess with other people's self esteem. That's right, a bad haircut takes away more from you than precious hair, hard-earned money, and time. It berefts you of smaller joys in life like accidentally catching your reflection on another persons's sunglasses. Or running into your batch mate from a time when you were you and not an unsurgically morphed mutant.
A bad haircut is basically universe saying, hey I warned you against that bully in the salon, but you never paid heed.
I have been bullied many times in life. Let's begin with the year 2011, when I came out of a very sassy and posh salon in Vasant Kunj looking like Justin Beiber with boobs. I remember promising myself that I will never cut my hair short again unless I'm paid to be the cover girl of a LGBT magazine. Every day I woke up, cursing our gene pool for giving me nylon ropes for hair strands with the veritable texture of a witch broom. I remember untagging myself from all the pictures from friends' albums, clicked that year.
As months passed, I recovered my confidence little by little. My hair grew up to shoulder level, just about enough to save my face from snarky laughs and the reassuring look I would get from boys when they learnt about my sexual preferences.
Needless to say, I didn't go to another salon after that. I changed my priorities. I allowed my hair to grow in the same way, parents with a drug problem allow their kids to grow. My hair turned out to be wild and unruly. While it lacked neatness and styling, it gave me the quintessential character of a bohemian on the run. Heck, I was doing a favour to the current generation by bringing the 60's back in vogue. To help yourself visualise better, search Janis Joplin on Google images right now.
Now being retro and nomadic is all fine until one fine day, I heard a friend from another university introduced me to her mom as 'aghori'. I would never be able to put in words the look I got from her mother. I felt damaged, judged, and reprimanded for what? Having hair that on a good day looked like a cross between noodles and chopsticks. I mean, I could have been born much worse, I could have been born as the singing sensation Justin Beiber himself.
The name hammered nails into every living cell of my brain. In the process, it deactivated the sloth inside me and I consciously began investing in expensive shampoos and hair conditioners. I was testing all kinds of products in the hope of a Cinderella makeover for my hair. If a brand today wants to take on its competition, I would happily volunteer to diss all the shampoo ads shown on that make obnoxious claims to protect your hair against frizz, dryness, sun damage, breakage etc.
This should tell you, none of them were of any great help. So I do what a person having a crises of faith does. I run to the Mecca of hair care (an expensive salon)on a Monday evening. I wasn't sure if I will find the place open in the late hours of evening but I'm surprised to know that they are happy to serve me. That should have been my first clue. A salon that's okay with last minutes appointments is clearly not getting a returned and loyal clientele.
I sit down at the dreaded chair for their star hair dresser's consultation, I tell him that It took a me 3 years to grow my hair and I wouldn't want him to shorten them. He nods. I repeat the part about the
length. He nods again.
He examines the density and texture of my hair with a disapproving look.
I tell him, I just want the hair to look neat, and have them layered just a little bit. He asked me what brand of shampoo I use, I tell him the list of shampoos used in the last 7 months. He's impressed and probably threatened too. So he darts off some mumbo jumbo about wavy hair which get dry and rough at the tail. He scorns me for not getting a hair cut in so long. I begin to get annoyed with his terrible anglicized accent and effeminate hand gestures, and permit him to do what he thinks is best.
You can't argue with those effeminate creatures can you?
He asks me to keep my head down. Chop
I resist, desperate to see what he's up to. chop
He smartly, engages me in another conversation about my most studied subjects, the shampoos in the market. Chop
I deftly agree with his views on the recently launched herbal shampoo. Chop
He says I actually have nice hair on the top, I'm flattered. Chop
I look up and realise my hair is one third of its original length now. I'm fuming. Raging at this nincompoop. Any kind of damage control will only have dastardly effects. So I let him cut the other side of my parted hair. He offers to blow dry and style them. I refuse, I disagree to let him off by making them look good artificially right now. I tell myself it's better to accept the loss now than scream at yourself after the first wash.
I want to punch his face, for displaying such evil antics but just then a realisation dawns upon me that It's impossible to find a hair stylist in the country who can style your hair without chopping them with the brutality of an underemployed barber. I dream of magically turning into the happy old lady who is pleased by Zohan the hairdresser from 'Don't mess with Zohan' but that's only before I see myself in the mirror looking like this
Grouchy, will you please edit my name, saved as 'aghori' in your phone book now! Thanks
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