Geradeaus and Other Hairy Tales
“Some of the worst mistakes in my life were haircuts” — Jim Morrison
My husband believes in a just world that will have everyone bald. Without the battles between thick and thin hair, straight/wavy/curly hair, blonde/brunette/red and every shade of grey in between, without the endless pursuits for the perfect stylist and their magical hair products, humans will live happily ever after, or so he believes. Since life isn’t fair and we don’t live in a just world, there is not a Girl, Woman or Other who doesn’t dream of beautiful hair.
My mom would claim I was born with unbearably thick hair. Having struggled for 2 days to get me out, I’d assume my unbearably thick hair was tangled somewhere along the way. Her claims offer corroboration with the pre-photoshop photos where my face disappears into the thick crown of bob-with-a-blunt-bang. But as any kid from the tropics knows only too well, it’s either the hair or the sun; and it’s not a battle we could win. So, my mom ensured I stuck with the close shave of bob-with-a-blunt-bang. With every passing year, the bangs disappeared a centimetre at a time. But the bob remained until I was big enough for pigtails and ponytails.
Haircuts were always in the neighbourhood barbershop. Hair longer than the shoulder was promptly donated to the barber. Like a quickie, I was in and out in 15min. That changed when I learned there was more to a haircut than mindless chopping. While the repertoire didn’t extend beyond a U or W or any other alphabet in English, it was a step towards aesthetics. The haircuts stopped being a quickie and also included foreplay. There were hairstyle magazines to assist with the choices. Of course, the haircuts looked pretty only because the women in the magazine were pretty; but that was unwanted defeatism! I took my sweet time browsing through the pics, looking at the mirror, and imagining myself in their haircuts. I could indulge in that dream right until the moment the stylist-barber kept her scissors down. The afterglow of that dream would last for a couple more days, after which I gulp down the reality like a shot of turmeric juice.
It wasn’t until I was 10 that I went to an actual stylist; not a stylist-barber whose only equipment was a handheld sprinkler, comb and scissors. But this was a stylist who didn’t need a magazine and whose toolkit also included shampoo, conditioner and a hairdryer. My dad had been entrusted with chopping down my hair, and he promptly found a delegate in my neighbour’s cousin. Her purpose in my life had only been to take me to La Femme, where the plebeians and patricians alike went to please Aphrodite. It was a large, multi-storied salon with a parking lot. It had an enormous waiting room that led to separate halls for haircuts, nails, and facials. If these hadn’t impressed me enough, my new bob with my new bang did the trick. This was not the blunt bang that I had sported hitherto. It was a side-bang which was styled elegantly using a hair dryer. I hadn’t even seen a hair dryer until then. Of course, my dad must have kicked himself for delegation when he had to pay 3 times the usual for getting rid of some hair. But like the aftertaste of a delicious dessert, I fondly remembered my La Femme haircut for several years, to the extent of misremembering it.
I moved to Seattle when I was 25. After being accustomed to a price range of 120 rupees ($1.5) for fancy haircuts, even $20 now got me only a less-than-mediocre one. I was back in the barberland. Of course, I was converting every cent to Indian Rupees; even air and water seemed expensive to me. So, I experimented on myself, with some success and mostly failures.
I had to wait another 4 years for a decent haircut. Bob was back but without the bang. Without remorse, the stylist had chopped down several inches of my hair, and in the process, cut down my age, too. Finally, here was a haircut that fulfilled its promise — the promise to create a new you. It gave me hope to dream again. And I clung on to the hope for promised land.
Every 6 months, I planned my haircut like a carnival, eagerly waiting for the festivities, and browsing images of prospective styles with their endless possibilities. But I could never recreate the magic for another 2yrs until I met Jessica. She was Christine’s, my neighbour’s, stylist. So when Christine walked around with her cute pixie, I couldn’t help but seek the contacts.
Jessica was like a therapist, nudging and probing for answers — What length do I want, what kind of style would suit me, what level of maintenance would I sign up for, what kind of products would I use? Like a Socratic sage, she asked without prescribing and transformed her subject like a wizard. I held on to her for as long as I was in Seattle, going as far as 20 miles one time for a haircut.
Even though I left Seattle, and the lovely Jessica, I still held on to my bi-yearly carnival. So, after 6 months in Berlin, I went seeking the new perfect. With my limited German and his inexistent English, our toolbox only had sign language and general goodwill. Sign language conveyed the length. I believe my photo conveyed the style. I seemed to say — give me a shoulder-length layer cut — without as many words. His eyes lit up in understanding and asked — Geradeaus? Of course, I knew Geradeaus was Go Ahead. So, I nodded yes. He asked again. I nodded again. 20min later, I had a haircut which was straight-as-a-stick. He hadn’t meant ‘Go Ahead’. He meant ‘Straight’!
1.5 years since Geradeaus, I’m still looking for a Jessica, the one who could read my mind and pamper my hair, transforming me like Anne Hathaway in Princess Diaries. As Pelo Malo shows, until we have that just world my husband dreams of, hair will continue to be the dream of even little boys.
