Hair Me Out: Going Bald Is On My Bucket List
I have had “going bald” on my bucket list for quite a long time, right alongside “buy a super bike and ride it across the country with your best friend” and “get a fabulous bikini body.”
Although I haven’t made much progress with the last two, I have been plodding along just fine with the first.
When folks first read that list of mine stuck up on the wall, they never react to the most outlandish of my wishes — for example, “wrap a snake around my neck." But not one lets the bald wish sit there without asking about it.
I am not insane. I just know that it takes great courage and confidence to wear a style that is the antithesis of the one expected, and remain unfazed by criticism. Madonna kept her brow bushy and her arm pits unshaven, and I admire her for having done that. Takes a lot of guts.
I belong to a Sikh family. For the uninformed , cutting one's hair is religious hara-kiri , which is exactly what my Father and I committed when, unbeknownst to my Mother, we cut my long lustrous locks to less than half their original length. They had seen neither scissor nor knife until that fateful day when I sacrificed them at the altar of fashion.
My Mother is a professor of literature who holds a PhD in the Female Imagination and Feminist Writing. So it makes sense that I was amused by her shocked reaction: “Oh God! What will I say to her in- laws?" ( “Hai Rabba! Mai aide saureya nu ki mu dkhaungi?”).
I am now twenty-five and I too have graduated through a series of the usual awkward hairstyles, finally to zero in on that one signature style that makes me want to compliment the mirror every time I meet it in the hallway. However, like all Nice Indian Dads, as soon as I turned twenty-three, my Dad wished to see me married and changing diapers. He didn't want me to get too old lest there be no one for me but the left-overs of the Marriage Market — the divorcees.
The spirit with which my Dad scouted for a potential son-in-law was admirable, much akin to the spirit of competition shared by all ambitious Black Friday shoppers. Dad has never been one for half-measures, and I must admit, even I could not have marketed my wifely qualities, professional achievements and personal attributes so well, and on so many different platforms.
If not for the minor detail that I was NOT READY for it yet, I would definitely be a Missus by now.
Drastic times called for drastic measures. And so, one fine day when it seemed like nothing in the world could save me from the much dreaded Proposal Photoshoot, I decided to chop it all off.
As I chopped away chunks and bunches, with every snip of the scissor, I felt calmer and happier. I was pleasantly surprised that my wish to stay proposal photo free was strong enough to override my love for my hair. I had figured that if I looked bad-ass enough, my parents would wait it out until my hair grew to a respectable length again. I based this hypothesis on my experiences as a fifteen year old.
However, I was hugely mistaken. Dad sent a photograph of me that he took on the sly to jeevansathi.com, bharatmatrimony.com and shaadi.com, and he was very happy with the results. “Only radical people like you apply for the position now” he informed me. “It is easier to short list.”
As you might have deduced, I have still not freed myself from the menace that is my parents clamoring for marriage, and I now realize that there is no escaping them. In fact, this sad turn of events only tempts me more to hasten forth with my bold balding plans.
And to all you wonderful souls who've read this pony-tale, thank you for hearing me out.
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