I wrote this blog post in August 2018 under the title Bad Hair Day(s). My haircut saga continues, and in 2021, I published a version of this in The Short Humour Site (UK), retitled as My Imperfect Look.  Quite recently, I had another visit to the salon, and my hairdresser announced that she had previously worked at the Royal Household, snipping royal hair. Oh, how the mighty have fallen!                                         

 

 

 

                                  How I Went from Rapunzel to Mowgli

“What happened to your hair?”

“Well… I had a haircut!”

“But why?”

“Oh… I was bored. So, I just chopped it off.”

“But who in their right mind cuts such long, healthy hair?”

Me. I do. And I did.

Honestly, I was just tired of people staring at my long locks, especially when a few grey strands made a grand appearance mid-conversation. I wasn’t going for any particular “look,” just less judgment and more comfort.

When I told the salon lady I wanted to go really short, she looked horrified – as if I’d asked her to commit a crime. I actually had to convince her to snip it off. Can you believe that?

See, I’ve never liked visiting salons. Those perfectly made-up women, gliding around recommending one beauty product after another, sizing you up with their sharp assessments of your skin type, hair texture, and eyebrow shape… I just went in for eyebrow ‘threading’ and recently for haircuts. If I let them, they’d probably critique my toes too!

I know I’m no goddess of flawlessness. But somehow, I’ve survived just fine with all my imperfections, and have had my fair share of admirers, thank you very much. So please, keep your opinions and just remove that extra hair that makes my eyebrows look like sunrays that belong on a political party logo.

Once, I dared to try a facial before my wedding, and another time, when a friend dragged me in for a free “Aqua Skin Treatment” trial. After an hour of mysterious massaging and spraying my face with water, I looked like a strawberry. I was told to avoid the sun. In Chennai? Seriously? I wrapped my face in a shawl like an undercover agent, reached home. The next morning, my face was a peeling, red disaster. Meanwhile, my friend was still in the “pink” phase. I ended up taking sick leave and hiding away from humanity. From Jekyll, I had transformed into Hyde.

And don’t get me started on nail spas, eyelash extensions, or makeup products. I once sat with a bunch of fashion-forward women raving about nail polish shades, eyeshadows, and the 14 lipsticks they rotate between. Overwhelmed, I finally bought my first-ever brand-new lipstick. Until then, I’d only used hand-me-downs from cousins and aunts.

Even my school friends, just as novice as I, gasped at the price of BB creams and compacts. We’d buy them anyway, only to let them rot in a corner. Once a year, I declutter my beauty shelf, discovering expired bottles, half-used creams, and mystery products whose purpose I can’t even recall. Some smell like sour milk, some are stuck tighter than dried clay.  I’m too scared to ask what “body yoghurt” is even supposed to do.

Anyway, back to the haircut.

I stepped into the salon after what felt like a decade, pictures of celebrities with stylish short haircuts on my mobile. The hairstylist, still sceptical, finally began. Snip after snip, layer after layer, years of oiling, shampooing, and combing fell to the floor. I closed my eyes, enjoying the sound of liberation. When I finally looked in the mirror, I saw a neat, short-haired version of myself. I liked it. I even had her run the clipper at the back of my neck. Perfect for Chennai’s brutal summer.

The first few days were bliss. Easy wash, no combing needed. My hair grew back quickly. Too quickly, in fact. Soon, I looked like Medusa (minus the snakes). No pin, band, or product could tame it. I resembled Mowgli from The Jungle Book. Why is it that haircuts only look good the day we get them? It’s like Cinderella’s magic. It vanishes at midnight.

Now I’m at a crossroads. Should I grow it out again, at least enough to tie a knot? Should I color it like everyone else? (Too lazy for regular touch-ups.) Should I chop it again? (Haircut every 20 days? Too expensive. We had moved to the UAE.) Maybe I’ll just embrace the wild look. Unkempt chic, anyone?

Oh dear, my imperfections are multiplying!

Some say this is karmic payback for chopping off my glorious hair. Maybe. But at least I did it my way.

Cut to a year later

So, I was sitting in the salon in Dubai waiting for the Russian model to work on my tresses. This time, I wasn’t too adventurous and opted for a layer cut that retained the lengthy mane. As I was reading Russian literature and engrossed in Tolstoy and Dostoevsky, I sprang into conversation while Nadia snipped my hair. I learnt a lot about her life in Russia, her son, whom she had to leave with her mother, and how she yearned to meet her family. At the end of our session, there was hardly any change in my appearance.

At home, my mother and my husband exchanged funny looks as I explained my imperceptible haircut.

Months passed; my luxuriant growth had begun to imitate Medusa. Again. The final straw was when I took my mother to a hospital where a nurse asked me if we were sisters! My mother had fewer grey strands than I did. Salt (more) and (less) pepper suits better with short hair.

I selected another hairstylist – A clean-shaven hulk named Ralph. His bald head shining, he chopped my long hair and gave me what I asked. A complete makeover.

Well, now I look like a ten-year-old strapped in a 45-year-old body.

PS. My haircut woes continue. Some days I have Princess D’s hairstyle. On other days, I am Indira Gandhi, sometimes Indra Nooyi…. most days I look like – a messy alien.

Photo by – Unsplash Farhad Ibrahimzade