In the midst of all the chaos of buying half the puja samagri for a havan fit to bring the Gods down to earth and doing their own little trance party in our new home, comes the burning question which has been consuming me for days, and giving me sleepless nights. The question being should I get a hair cut? The hair, as the best will tell you, is a birds nest. Some pigeons even came to roost occasionally but were shooed out by brat. A consultation one had aeons ago with fancy schmancy hairstylist at French chain salon who spoke with an accent so thick I would need an interpreter to just understand whether actually planned to get round to ever cutting my hair, had him tell me my hair was best unstructured. Which, after forking out half an inheritance for the damn cut, resulted in a style that was the exact same ditto carbon copy of what the aunty at the neighbourhood salon gave me for a hundred bucks. Moral of the story. With my hair, cut at the local salon, colour at the posh ones. The saving grace has been the discovery of highlights, which add a dollop of some style to the unstructured hair. Emerge from the parlour newly highlighted, washed, deep conditioned and blowdried with huge round brushes and two assistants to hold the driers looking like I walked off the ramp, only to have the mane go back to uncombed mess the next time I wash it. “Do something to that hair of yours!!!” is the perennial battlecry from the mom everytime we go relative visiting. Yes, the hair is an untidy embarrassment. And that is a polite way of putting it.
In my college days, it hung to my hips and I bunned it into a top knot on my head, so severe with gadzillion pins, and so it stayed through the day. Imagine. I went through my teens with my hair in a matron’s hairstyle. Ten guesses why I had no admirers. Additional help, the pimples, the spectacles and the waistline as broad as a tree trunk. Husband then boyfriend was the first person to drag me to a salon for a hair cut. Emerged feeling like a sultry seductress. He reaped the benefits.
Anyway, thinking back to the ethereal beauty of my youth is not the issue under debate here, but the fact that the hair has really gone out of hand. It’s like a mop of straw that on a dry day is like hay, and on a rainy day, like seaweed. Given the fact that the geyser is on the blink and lazy me doesn’t want to go through the gamut of washing rinsing and deep conditioning with cold water, the conditioning is being given a skip with the resultant dried hair the kind that Albert Einstein patented. A friendly Gujju aunty waiting to pick up her grandson at the brat’s school tapped me on the shoulder and informed me I should try Mahabhringraj tel to combat the graying. What graying, I almost shrieked, this is platinum highlighting. Cost me a bomb. And an arm and a leg. But composed myself, and thanked her for her kind concern and promptly rushed to the nearest Ayurvedic shop and bought myself a bottle to douse the head with on the weekends, given that the hairline is already spitting up grey hair at the rate of two new ones a day in these stressful times.
A sleek and perennial dressed to the nines friend recommended posh salon to moi, a new one, given that I have already done the gamut of the Bblunts, and Juices, and Scissors over Comb, and Franck Provost, and Giorgio’s and found my neighbourhood Bride to be much better with the cut, am not likely to try it out. Would rather spend the money on going grey again. Or platinum, if you must. As for the cut itself. Unstructured layers is the term used I believe to define the style that suits me the best. What I say to the aunty is just get the split ends out. Works every time.