Episode 38: The Hair

The rains paid us a visit early that morning. They were in quite a hurry. The moment they landed on the tin roof, they decided to stay for just a minute. So they made all the noise they could manage to in those 60 seconds and shut up and ran away to allow the Sun to come dry up their mess.

As the Sun walked in all heated up to do its job, my hair refused to listen to me. I had refused to listen to pleas for a haircut anyway so my hair being so diligently disobedient was only natural. Children are what their fathers are. And this was my very own hair that I had let grow wild.

It came as no surprise. I expected it to behave this way. But I thought it'll relent after two minutes of combing. But no, it just stuck to its behaviour.

“You know it's a little too long,” was Mother Dearest's observation as she saw me struggle to keep a bunch of stubborn strands down on my scalp.
“Yes Mother I know.”
“Too too long.”
“Yes.”
“In my days, no one had such hair.”
“Well, people did have long hair you know.”
“Yes, but not the boys.”
“Naturally, none of them experimented.”
“Well people did dear, but not on such a wild scale.”

That was invitation for me to jump right into a battle and so I did. I left my strands of hair as they were and walked towards the hall.

“Wild?” I said as my hands rose and gestured at my hair, “You call this wild?”
“What would you call it then?”
“It's a statement.”
“A wild one.”
“Oh come on Mother. It's not wild. People do have long hair.”
“Not men.”
“Men too.”
“What men are you talking about?”
“The ones I know.”

“Surely! The men you know are not necessarily the ones to be looked up to.”
“What about Jesus Christ! He had long hair too.”
“And a beard!” This was Sister Dearest.
“Yes, thank you Sis! He had a beard too.”

“That that is different.”
“How?”
“What you mean how?”
“He knew how to carry Himself.”
“And you meant to say I do not?”
“I am merely saying – well never mind.”

“Yes yes. Just say it. You want to say it. Just say it.”
“Well, it does not suit you.”
“But Mother it does. It's all about how you carry it.”
“Oh I carry mine well dear. I daresay I can say that about you.”

“Mother you're impossible!” I said as I marched back to the mirror and gave my hair a fine slap to stay in place.

A week later, I decided to change my hairstyle. The way my hair stood was quite embarrassing, not to mention awkward. Of course, my hair was shameless and felt it was entitled to express itself. But I had no intention to make way for such freedom and decided I need to lay my strands firmly to rest. I combed the entire bush backwards so that even if they misbehaved, all I had to do was twirl my fingers and pull them down towards my neck.

Two days after I had gone about with my black strands struggling to misbehave yet again, the family swore under its breath and gave me a clear picture of what they actually thought about my whole experiment.

We were all at tea. And I was trying my best to keep my locks out of my sight as I read Pride and Prejudice when Mother Dearest began the tirade.

“In our days,” she began with the usual pride she took in her days, “such a thing would not be tolerated.”

I pretended I did not hear that and turned the page to read about the shades of Pemberley.

“It's so horrible,!” she continued, fidgeting with her tea cup, “you know those goonda mawalis on the road? Only they sport such dilapidated wigs!”

“I know!” This was Sister Dearest. She too had gone off to their side. “No guy in my college has such kind of hair,” she said, “It's so uncool.”

“But,” I said, as I paused and kept my thoughts about Pemberley aside, “your college is rather uncool anyway.”

“What do you mean uncool?”
“I mean it's so hot that I hardly find anyone with any fashion sense walking about its campus.”
“Very funny. As if you have any sense at all.”
“Of course, I do.”

“Really?” snapped Mother, “had you even some, you'd know what a nest that looks.”

“Nest?!” I said scandalized at her choice of words, “this” - I said slowly as I outlined my scalp – “looks like a nest?!”
“You know the sparrow's nest? It looks just like that.”
“That is so not true.”
“It is - take a look at this photograph in the newspaper. It says bird's nest and this looks a lot like that bundle on your head!”
“It's luxurious soft hair - not a bundle!”
“Oh whatever it is, it's disgusting.”
“Well what is sauce to the goose need not be sauce to the gander.”
“Really now dear that's there,” said Mother as she rose, tea cup in hand, “but what's poison to the gander is always poison to the goose!”

In my opinion, I thought the argument rather twisted. I mean imagine comparing my hair to poison! If she had to compare it to a schoolboy, I would not have mind but poison! Not that I had forced them all to style it the way I do. I let it pass though but I knew I would have a whole battle ahead of me now.

In the meantime, my locks grew longer still and tamed themselves down a little. They now loved to flutter in the cool of the evening and went right into the nostrils of anyone walking behind me. One of the victims of such an attack happened to be my father.

We were all out walking on the beach close by one not so sunny evening when all of a sudden, a gust of wind made a pass on my hair. My hair loved such passes and played along. Swept away by such attention, it flew straight into my father's nose. And all that belonged to hell trembled.

“What is this bloody hair of yours?” he thundered.
“Oh sorry,” I said, trying my best to pull my hair back and keep it close to my neck.
“What sorry! What sorry!”
“Well father, it just flew by mistake. I don't own it.”
“But you wear it don't you?”
“That doesn't mean I order it around. They are not my children you know.”

Hardly was the last word of that line out of my mouth than I realized what a blunder my tongue had made me commit. The reaction was quick. Father went stone cold and whipped up a gaze that paralyzed me, and then my hair flying around in mid air.

“Is that another way of saying I order you around?” he asked, fire baying out of every word.
“No no," I stammered, "I mean I mean-”
“Yes yes I know what you mean.”
“No no I don't think you know what I think I meant.”
“Do you even hear yourself? You idiot!”

I kept quiet. Mother and Sister were quiet too only that they had a fine time watching the fun. I you see generated quite a lot of entertaining content.

“Better keep that hair out of my bloody sight or else, you and your ramshackle hut on top of your head get out of the house. Understood?”

I had no option to not understand. So I said, yes I understood and walked as fast as I could till I reached home.

The next day was Monday. And Tuesday I was to hear from a company. Naturally then, I was in a state that only nervousness can understand. I tried to look all calm, but failed quite scandalously at looking so.

I did let my mind wander. I thought about the day and the night before, about the laziness I was so used to now when all of a sudden, Mother Dearest walked into the hall.

“You read today's paper?”
I told her I hadn't.

“Oh you must read the paper. Makes no sense lying around like this you know.”
I said it made sense to me but I doubt it will ever make sense to her.

“See that's what! You always want to pick up an argument.”
“No not at all. You bring the argument all laid out on the table. All I have to do is pick at it.”
“Fine whatever! So as I was saying you must read today's paper.”
“Why?”
“Oh,” she said, snapping the paper open, “you know there's this nice article in that section.”
“Really?”
“It talks about dressing up and how it affects your career prospects.”

I sighed. "And it surely says keep your hair short?”

Mother went quiet.

“See. I knew you won't tell me to read the newspaper for nothing.”

She did not reply immediately. Instead, she put on her glasses, adjusted herself onto the sofa and pulled the paper open. “It's for your own good!”

I sighed yet again. “Mother I'm 28. No, I'm 29 now. I know what's good for me.”
“Some even at the age of 60 don't know what's good for them.”
“I am not 60! I am not even half that age.”
“Exactly! Which is why I doubt whether you know anything at all about what's good for you.”
“Really Mother, I can't see how my hair has got to do anything with what's good or not for me.”
“Just as I cannot see the reason why you are letting that hut reside there.”

“It's not a hut. It's hair.”
“Oh shut up. It's a hut. Look at it.”
“Mother,” I said in all finality, “we're through with this argument. You know I am not gonna listen. Why bother?”
“Well, it's my duty as a mother to tell you.”
“Oh Mother, will you stop that? I'll tell St. Peter not to blame you in case he send me to hell because of my hair!”

“Don't be ridiculous dear,” said Mother, shaking her head as if she wanted to shoo my words away, “at times you talk such rubbish.”
“Who doesn't here? Everyone does.”
“See that's exactly why I said you talk rubbish.”

“What's the matter now?” Sis Dearest said as she walked in and plonked herself on the excuse of a chair that sat glum-faced near the table.

“Mother says I talk rubbish.”
“Really?”
“No,” snapped Mother, “I said his hair’s too long.”
“That too,” I added.
“But isn't it true?”
“No of course it isn't” was what I said.
“Yes of course it is” was Mother said.

And we began a battle of stares. Our gazes were frosted with anger and they flew quite ferociously all over the hall. Had these some more life, the place would have been a wasteland.

But by now, I had had enough. First it was the jeans (“You're wearing this?! This?!”), then it was the book – Lady Chatterley’s Lover (“You're reading this?! This?!”), and now it was the hair. Yes, I hated the way it stood and how it insisted on posing in the weirdest fashion in front of the mirror. But I did want it to grow. And I was not about to snap up a scissor and snip it all just because some Godforsaken century had decided to awaken its principles in my family.

So I sat down, took up Sense and Sensibility and turned to page 4.

“Look,” I said, after I had reached halfway through the page, “this hair stands and it stands on my head. And on my head it shall grow as well. If you have a problem, it's your problem not mine. Deal with it. I will not snip this all off. And that is final.”

As those words flew out of my mouth and hovered like missiles in mid-air, I got up with my Sense and Sensibility under my arm. And by the time, the missiles had smashed everyone into a state of shock, I was in my room, trembling but not in the least bothered about the damage I had wrought.