by Prashila Naik
My first memory of a hair-cut, of course performed on my own little self, was shaped by a ‘Sadhana cut’, and was shaped inside a men’s salon that my father frequented. It wasn’t my father who’d masterminded this epic chop though; it had been my mother. I still haven’t quite given a thought or inquired on how the plan germinated inside her head, but I distinctly remember that one evening in Goa where I was given my first brush with hair-stardom. I had been startled to now have my hair falling over my forehead as thick bangs when all this while it was dutifully and respectfully, pulled back. Now in retrospection, a Sadhana cut did nothing to my oval and high cheek-boned face. The only picture I have as a record of it makes me look like a rakish children’s movie villain-girl with brown skin. And yet, I am grateful to my mother for one of the most bizarrely charming memories my life will possibly ever record for me.
My mother often laments, as she looks at bald skulled babies, how both her offspring were born with a “head full of hair”, as if this world into which she had brought in these bundles of awesomeness was simply unworthy of it. That head full of hair though had been a major woe for me growing up, with its unmanageable thickness and length. I also remember snickering at all the Parachute oil ads which promised “kaale ghane lambe baal”, saying why would I need their damned bottle of oil when I already had kaale, lambe and ghane baal that I somehow wished would “lessen”. So, it was but natural that I was somehow not in favour of long hair. I found umpteen ways in which I would coax my mother into taking me to a salon to get a hair cut, and the kind soul that she is, my mother, even if not my father, almost always obliged. All these hair cutting situations brought in their own new bunch of memories, like this group of Nepali women who sniggered at my mother and me, because I demanded a “hair style” as opposed to a hair cut. Oh, cut me some slack youlovely women. In my limited vocabulary, a hair style was a result of a hair cut, tch tch. Or the one time, my hair stubbornly refused to grow(!) for years, leading to creepy observations by neighbours and some conspiracy theories by my mother.
It was only but natural that as a grown-up old soul with an opinion on everything and anything, I had soon begun to build an aversion towards these little dens of scissors and blow dryers and all the jazz that tags along with it. And alongside an increased inclination to online independence that led me to make use of the internet to even order postal stamps. And so, it wasn’t surprising when I decided for myself, that the internet would help me find the perfect and easiest set of steps to get a layered-with-steps haircut. And the internet did not disappoint. The minute I had made in my request, I had more solutions than I could handle, and yet with a patience that I did not think I possessed, I made my way through all of them, taking note of every tip, every trick, every single move that would give my Jennifer Aniston moment. On the appointed Sunday, I woke up with a determined mind, and a slightly apprehensive heart. What if I, with my unsteady fingers and bad judgment, end up ruining my now-perfectly-thinning-and-balding-at the-forehead-but-still-long hair. What if I rendered it in a position that even the most competent hair stylist in the world would not be able to restore. But doubts make up me, and I make up doubts. So I set myself up on this journey which would finally bring that Sadhana cut evening to a full circle, right under my own nimble fingers.
A layered haircut obviously involves a lot of layers, and so the first step to it is to identify the length of your longest layer. Now this was the first sprint where I could have massively gone off-track, but drawing from some past bad experiences, I decided to go a safe length and chopped off only a couple of inches of my hair. I must say, the chopped hair lying on a newspaper sheet was nothing short of a baby step towards the direction of catharsis. I liked how it felt under my fingers. Time to get on now, I decided. Good, bad, ugly, hideous, it was all going to happen now. I went on, separating out layers of hair with each passing chop. And suddenly, I realised that God had granted my wish of lessening my burden of kaale ghane lambe baal! Disturbed, I wished I could eat up all those chopped tresses in the wild hope they would grow back on my head. I mentally made a note to start taking more care of my hair and restart the routine of rubbing my fingernails on my scalp for at least 15 minutes everyday; perhaps it would improve blood circulation and thereafter, hair growth. All these distractions however were ineffective on my merciless little pair of scissors that was by now scavenging through the leftover hair on my head, the mob of little tresses on the newspaper sheet grow bigger and bigger.
When I finally got down to what would become my “side” bangs, I stopped, like a shy teenager stops when he leans forward to kiss the girl of his dreams. It’s like you knew you wanted those beautiful bangs to frame your face. You knew you wanted them so real bad. And yet, you also knew, one wrong chop and the only possible thing you could do was to then turn them into a rat-bitten and malnourished version of that infamous childhood Sadhana cut. With shivering fingers I bunched all my hair up and let it cover my face. It felt soft against my fingers. I pulled the scissors closer, and then 1, bam, 2, bam, chop, the bangs were ready, framing my face. I stepped back, a little unsure, and yet surveying my masterpiece.
I tossed all the layers around, tied them and then let them free. And then upon realizing I had still not found the perfect haircut for my face, added some more “impromptu” layers. By now, the mass of chopped tresses seemed big enough to stuff a child’s pillow! I felt saddened by how I had still not achieved what I had set out to do. I had to stop now. Any more chops were hardly going to make a difference. I bunched the newspaper together and shoved it into the trash bin. My bangs pushed themselves in front of my eyes, as if asserting their existence. I pushed them behind my ears and then in an impromptu motion, pushed all my hair inside a big black rubber band, certain that I was the biggest fool ever to grace this earth. This adventure would not be exposed to anyone, family, friends, enemies. Till further safety, it would be tucked inside clips, and hairbands, and other paraphernalia that I was grateful existed.
“Hey, did you cut your hair?” I was in office, and my colleague had caught me in the delicate moment in between letting my hair lose and then tying them up. A few seconds and I’d have missed her. Damn! Damn! Damn! Instead I nodded, and half-smiled, my mind already working on words that would begin to describe the “incompetence” of the person responsible for this disaster.
“Looks great, suits your face so well. Where did you get it done?”
For a second, I was certain I had dreamt that, but then the words regained form. I straightened myself and leaned against the chair, putting on my best smile.
“I cut it myself,” I said, and then let out a laugh, of self-depreciation, of smugness, of a natural talent that would somehow find its way out into the world. “Yes, I did it, all on my own.”
Pic from glamsham.com
