All you Girls can wear Black Today!

Almost everyone who knows me, asks why I don't have a haircut more often? Mes amis, read on...

I go for a haircut around twice a year. I can't understand how most people go for one every month or so. I can think of few more torturous ordeals than this one. The hair-dresser's chair differs little from its electric cousin in my eyes. Even a visit to a dentist is slightly more pleasureable. At least he speaks English...
Ah, yes! Therein lies my first problem. Now, I am normally fairly garrulous when it comes to speaking in English; but should the conversation switch to Hindi and all traces of eloquence vanish like the mist on a summer's morning. Words are few and far between, and rarely consist of more than one syllable. How am I supposed to convey to the hair-dresser exactly what I want? To add to my woes, most hair-dressers are as loquacious as an old lady who's been drinking too much.

(All converstions were in Hindi and have been translated.)

The first thing that I had to do on entering the place, was wait for about 20 minutes until someone was free. The only form of divertissement present were some tattered Filmfare magazines, and since I possess less than zero interest in Bollywood, I spent my time reconsidering my decision to let go of my long locks. When my turn came, this dubiety must have been amply manifested on my visage, for the bloke pounced on it with the predatory skill of a hungry hawk.


"What can I do?"
"Just cut my hair, mate."

Might as well get it over and done with, I thought.

"Are you sure? Why don't you just straighten it? You'll look very nice with straight hair."


Yeah, of course you'd think so. It's gonna fetch you a few hundred bucks. And I prefer my compliments coming from girls, thank you!


"No thanks."
"Really? Why would you want to get rid of this long hair? I'm telling you, just try straightening it. Then you can comb it back this way." He indicates how it should be combed back. I start to look like a cross between a young Macaulay Culkin and something out of a Mafia movie.


No, you dumbass. Just the haircut.


"NO!"
"What about a shave?"
"No again."


I prefer the stubble, if it’s all the same to you.


He starts cutting my hair.
“How should I cut it?”
“Nice and short.”
“Yeah, but how short?”
“About this much.” I indicate with my finger about half an inch.
“Really? Why do you want it so short?”


Because its MY hair, in case you didn’t realise.


I don’t answer, thinking that maybe silence would put an end to his questions. I guess I had failed to realize the tenacity of this individual.

“What about coloring your hair?”


What the hell! Forget about my hair, my face was already turning red.


“No.”
He continues cutting, now focussing his confabulatory skills on other innocent customers around me. I drift away in thought.

After a couple of minutes, he brings me back to reality.

“How would you like your sidelocks?”
“Normal, nothing fancy.”
“Straight or slanting.”
“Straight.”
He then proceeds to cut them at a slant.


Why the hell did you ask me in that case?


After a few more minutes, he asks me whether my hair was short enough. He must have been blind, because it wasn’t even close to the half inch I had indicated.

“No, cut it shorter.” I indicated with my finger again.

His scissors waved around little more, and again he stopped well short of the desired mark. He proceeded to comb my hair back.

“Shorter still. And I don’t want it combed back.”
“Why? This length suits you perfectly. And if you comb it back, you will look simply superb.”


I already mentioned that I do not approve of guys complmenting me on my looks, and am even more uncomfortable when the guy doing that is playing around with my hair! I’m torn between insisting on getting my hair cut shorter and running away like the Devil was after me.


I choose the middle road. “Great. This will do just fine.” I rise to leave.

“Wait, would you like a shave?”

Does your memory need refreshing every 10 minutes?

“No, I don’t.”

“A head massage?”
“No.”

“A facial?”
“No.”

I could already see another question forming on his lips. I gave him the stop-before-you-cross-the-line look. He pays heed.

I quickly thrust the (a tad too exorbitant) fees into his hand and scram. Stopping only long enough to dishevel my combed back hair.

(The End)


Now you all know why I hate having a haircut. I’m thinking of reducing the frequency from half-yearly to yearly.