Thursday, 11 September 2008

I had a haircut

I had a haircut.

Now I can imagine the mundanity you attach with that statement, And for those who bother to read further on you may have a nasal snort of “Oh-its-the bad haircut story-again” already made because it’s only about bad haircuts that one tends to write about. Nobody’s haircut story ever written starts with “ I had an excellent haircut”, for excellence is seen and admired and re-cut again.

But the ones written about are the ones who have literally lost hair over lost hair!!!

I have always been a victim to the ways of the inexperienced. Does that make me experienced? Never! For the impulsive Sagittarian hates the word “experience”. It makes her feel old and predictable….

And now the experienced scissor tale of inexperience begins….


Luscious long black hair upto my waist…. I stood as a symbolic modern representation to all that’s good and true about Kerala…including the heart-stopping plait that can sway only to the tunes of shapely hips and the sickle curve of a strand of hair that can only hide behind a well-shaped ear lobe….


Small naughty curls bouncing in all possible directions…I stood as a symbolic representation of all that was Greek and true about Medusa and her head…including the heart wrenching tad of a strand of hair that notoriously hugged my forehead and the riot of curls that rode over the rest of what was once my head.


“Mmm…no not the Beckham one…Vic or Dav.” I mumbled as I leafed through page after page of what seemed like an endless book of “The latest” in haircuts or the lack of them. Beyond those series of photos and beneath the head that hardly swallowed them in, there lay a nagging disturbing thought; the kind that doesn’t appreciate new things always.

I was in a new city and I detested the prospect of surrendering my crown and money to somebody who couldn’t make out the difference between either but when you have an important meeting to attend the next day and the ends of your hair look more frayed than your nerves...desperation and impulsiveness become siblings.

Considerations conceived promises, became pregnant as trials and gave birth to a heady argument. After a mutual questioning of basics in profession and ethics, I stormed out distraught and certainly visibly dishevelled.

“First day at work” was no better what with colleagues giving shocked looks from slivers in the cubicles. The silence was unbearable. I finally pushed my desk away and yelled, “Did somebody press the MUTE button in here.”

“First you come in looking like something the cat dragged in last night and then you scream the roof down, who the hell do you think are lady?” was what I expected.

What I got:
“Now, now Indu…I know the last week has been real trying for you what with you single-handedly leading the project. But no amount of stress should make a man inflict bodily harm on himself.”

Poised liquidy convincing eyes looked at eyes wide open with mouth to match,

“Boss, are you trying to say that I PULLED out my hair b’cos of the stress?”

“Well, dear,um…er…not in so many words but …er…” Boss places his “Best Entrepreneur Award” plaque before him and slinks somewhere behind it.

For the second time that year…. I stormed out!


Weeks later, here I am pasted by sticky gel and cornered by bob pins. Not to mention smothered by sympathetic looks and feeling like something out of a recycle bin with all the helpful suggestions pouring in…Nobody dare disturb as they see me hurriedly thumping at my keyboard with an urgency like never before….

“I had a hair cut.”

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