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.
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.
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