Wednesday, December 26, 2007

Beauty for the bloodthirsty

I just got myself a razor-sharp haircut at Bandra. I didn’t intend to, but I was really impressed with one of those celebrity stylists in the salon I was at.

Here’s how my socks got knocked off:

PYT (in a stunning white halter dress and red stilettos): Hey! What if this cut doesn’t suit my face?

Stylist (with tattoo, biceps, and torn jeans): Then change your face, sweetheart.

Now, nothing impresses me as much as a stinging sense of humor…unless it is directed at me of course..and most times, even then.

I really liked the dude, and asked him quite sheepishly if he would cut my hair (which is already short.) He looked at me, shrugged his shoulders, and began.

For a really long time, he almost shredded each strand of my hair. Listening to Jimmy Hendrix, that too. I don’t like Jimmy Hendrix. But no-one really asked my opinion about the music. The PYT, looking more ravishing than ever in her new bob-cut, sang along and whistled and stuff. I made a face because the dude was actually ‘splitting hairs’. I giggled at the pun in my head and must have moved or shaken a little bit, so he poked me with a comb. “Styling is real important”, he whispered softly, more to his reflection in the mirror than to me.

But nearly an hour and a half later, I looked like a fashion victim. The look was dramatic…a little too dramatic. I stared at myself and thought that I definitely don’t have what it takes to pull this off. Maybe if I bungee-jumped twice a week or ate sushi out of paper-plates while studying a nude…maybe if I led that sort of life, maybe then this super-cropped sharp-edged style would suit me. But what do I do? I eat, drink, sleep, read…repeat. My hairstyle intimidated the rest of me.

I mumbled my thanks and left.

As I waited for the bus, I put a scarf over my head and wondered how I would get through days in my office. As it is, I seem to give out the impression that I’m on some sort of internship on this planet, and with this avant-garde hair-do, I’ve sealed my fate. But then, something happened.

The bus arrived and there was a huge crowd jostling at the entrance. My scarf slipped and I just felt people look at my hair. The next minute, I watched the crowd part ways to let me pass. Like actually make way so that I would get into the bus first – there were men, women, girls, boys, kids…everyone just stepped aside to let me go in. This little Moses-like moment pleased me no end. Later when I caught myself in the mirror, I saw what they saw – this hairstyle really spelt no-nonsense in thick, red letters. The red being blood. I looked tough and mean, and powerful…like my hair was sending out some sort of a message...more than message...some type of an anthemic hammered code – I. Come.First.

I love my hair style now. Tomorrow, of course, the effects of the gel and mousse and 360 degree blow-dry will wear out. If I don’t like it then, I’ll just take the dude’s advice…I’ll change my face. The hairstyle stays.


J said...

this is the most awesome composition i have rested my eyes on in ages. :)

swati said...

Really brought back some unpleasant memoirs of standing out in the crowd and the longing to belong. The fruitless attempts to become one of them and the fear of loosing what was present. But, really the account looks very known and experienced, even more often than thought, as if its just a struggle to break off the image but a lurking fear to loose it forever. Its such a great dilemma to be or not to be, what we really are and what we really want to become and whether we really want to become or are just taking a risk. Thanks again for the revival of the struggle.