And the husband didnt notice. Here was I, swishing and swashing my newly chopped to my shoulders mane, which was bouncing in that infernally cutesy way it only does when you get back from the parlour, with half a factory of chemicals and product in it, with wonderful things having been done to it, including tongs, and hot irons and two people holding blowdryers at various angles, while the very serious stylist pretends she’s worth every paise of the two grand you’re going to spend on her, and talks gibberish about layers, and unstructured and volume and texture and deconstructed, and bohemian and more importantly, the wash and wear which you keep telling her one zillion times, so she knows you’re not going to be sitting with your hairdryer and iron every morning while the world is falling apart on you. And which, you know, in your heart of hearts will end up being just what the aunty from the neighbourhood beauty parlour would have given you for 250 bucks. The reason you’ve gone so short is because you’re sick to the gills of the platinum highlights which have gone faded copper thanks to your experiments with truth and henna, and making you look like a placid tabby cat. And to get rid of them, you have been told, you need “To do a global, and then do lowlights and highlights. And this will happen post the hair cut.” Which meant that you would be strapped to the chair for the better part of four hours, which you didnt have in the first place, having left offspring in the reluctant care of the paternal grandmother promising to be back within the hour. “Or else, we could just cut off the highlights….and they’re really looking baaaad,” this with a little shiver, meant to express exactly how repugnant the segment of hair was, lifting offending portion and dropping it with disgust,”and you could grow out your virgin hair,” (I kid you not, virgin hair was the phrase, I had visions of nubile nymphs in white grecoroman togas dancing in my hair), “And come back later for fresh highlights.”
I gently asked for costs. And then having heard the kings ransom I would have paid to do the four hour strapped to the chair version, I opted for the chop chop to the shoulders. And patted myself on the back for a decision, sensibly taken, helped by the public poll conducted on previous post. “Chop it all off, Kiran,” shouted all ye little voices in my head. “You can always grow it back if you dont like the cut.” And it is summer after all. What better reason if you wanted any. And there are always hairbands, and gels and scrunchies and butterfly clips to tie it all back if it is a disaster. Which it isnt. Given the hair I have, I can wash it and leave home without running a comb through it and no one would know the difference. Except the mother. She always knows.
Anyway, you’re taken in by the glib talk and the very effective pr, and the fact that the client roster has celebs who have great hair cuts. Not to mention, they also have a retinue of stylists and hairdressers on 24 hour call, and they probably look great at every public appearance after three hairs of being strapped into chairs, at the mercy of hairstylists.
Coming back to the husband. After around two hours of sashaying with locks left open (I am the sort who always has butterfly clips holding everything off my face at home), and putting my face in his face as often as I could without getting strange looks while he watched his beloved CNBC TV 18, I finally upped the courage and asked him if he liked it, in the strange pet dog pleading way I end up when I feel uncertain about something I have done. Lets say, the tight afro perm was the last time I remember using the same tone of voice. And this was after I had run away to my moms place for two days post the perm, ashamed to show myself in public after the impulse to be permed had been given into, and reality and the mass of frizz had confronted me.
Anyway, I digress. The point being, the man hadnt noticed I had got a good six to eight inches loped off my hair. “You had a haircut?” he asked, quizzically, as he switched off the lights, taking his quilt and stretching himself out with his eyes closed. Like that would be the ideal situation by which to view said haircut.
Of course, this did wonderful things for my morale and self esteem and self image and chuffed at self feeling, and I promptly ran into the bathroom to be calm and zen, and howl my lungs out with the expedient muffler of stuffing the washbasin towel in my mouth. I emerged a wiser and calmer woman. Albeit a red eyed and red nosed one. A woman who expressed her displeasure by maintaining a stony silence and a resolutely turned back through the night.
The moral of the story: The age when the man noticed when I even had my eyebrows done has passed. I can now do what I please with myself, the man will never notice. Do you think tattoos and piercings will get past him?