A Good Hair Day

The sultry dark hair saloon at the corner of east fort, Trivandrum, resonated of a stubborn fan and rhythmic clanks of deftly moving scissors. I, the four year old was seated on the high rotating chair facing the cloudy mirrors. In all curiosity, I peered through my oversized blue plastic robe to catch a glimpse of appa’s reflection. No sooner had the barber chettan delivered a shave for the portly uncle; he had exchanged a few words with appa. He had assumed the scissors and comb, one in each hand and given me his toothy smile through the mirror. In all my hesitation of the surroundings I had reciprocated with incessant wailing. Half and hour and later, I had left the dingy room, smiling through tears, one five star bar heavier and all my black locks intact.

And with that appa’s new venture began, to civilize my hair to the child-like length. He had begun his experiments with the fringe like cut, wherein an umbrella like ringlet hung on the forehead. Like any amateurish effort, my hair got shorter by an inch for each mistake he rendered. Yet, appa had amassed the skill to perfection with years and saved me from the daunting saloon visits, for the better half of my childhood.

Owing to my inhabited tom-boy cuts, I had let the coiffure slip through teenage until I was seventeen. Over the schooling years, my boy-cut had succumbed to many a jibe like “feather-plucked-hen” or “chicken top”. And when I entered the portals of Engineering, I had had my first hair cut in a “salon”, letting my hair stylist retire, marking my age of growing up!

Some wise soul once stated that a good hair style gives you confidence. I am not sure if I concur that, but I am definitely a fad of the new look at the end of a hair cut. And if it is an ad hoc one, the feeling only gets better.

Last Saturday, I had with girl friends, treaded the Boston University streets, fighting the cold lethargy. Ann and I were meeting after ten years and surprisingly for her my hair looked much different from the tom-boy school days. But like stupid school girls, we had jumped to an impromptu whim to get a hair cut each at the Supercuts across the street. Though the rotating chair, plastic robes, huge mirrors felt the same, the ambience was marked by chatter of girls eyeing their hair through their mirror images.

A razor cut, trim, layering and later, we had exited feeling fresh and great. For our feeling and change of look was our own, since N and Size could hardly notice an iota of difference even after giving them a tour of the hairdo from each angle. That night as the girls’ day out was forgotten in yummy desserts, I was left to wonder about women and grooming; and how with a few swirls and curls, we turn prosaic moments to special ones.