Tangles of Leftover Hair
by Rini Barman
It is 5.30pm, Tuesday. Just took a shower. Washed hair with Axe shampoo. Axe body washes and shampoos always smell so strong, I couldn’t resist. As I walked out of the bathroom, I felt the desire of wearing a skirt with ducks cross-stitched in it. So, I opened my almirah and instead of finding skirts, I found a packet of leftover hair. Perhaps I had collected it to cure my allergies, when worms come around me, I get those swollen rashes. I need to be careful, hence the packets of hair in advance. Hair dipped in mustard oil is a relief to rashes. Mother knew about these folk medicines. My hair is still wet, some parts are drying gradually. Wild hair I have got, some say I had inherited it. But that can’t be true, mother couldn’t stand the hair on my pillows. As I grew up, she hid them in some corner of the house. I first learnt how to sleep, and then to tame hair fall.
Hair.
Till fourth standard, I had, what is known as the boycut. No, not by choice, of course. In fact, in the vocabulary of a girl studying in the fourth standard, there exists no word called choice. My father’s ideologies were quite complex, now that I recall, and write about it. When at St. Mary’s convent, he’d take me to saloons, every Sunday without fail. He wanted me to be ‘as sturdy as a boy’ but in a girl’s outfit. Each Sunday I saw my hair fall all over my shoulders.Unlike my younger sister who would often weep as her hair was being cut, I looked forward to it. Sunday salons were full of obese, helpless middle-aged men whom I liked to chat with. They would say they loved coming to the salons not because they cannot shave on their own, but because it gave them some respite from domestic chores on weekends. I decided that once I begin to grow beard, I would ask Saloon dada to teach me once and for all, so I don’t have to depend on him. Saloon Dada would put a butterfly clip on my hair, and say, “Here, now, Maina looks super. Check in the mirror and smile!” And thus, I would walk hand-in-hand with my father post the haircut; he would treat me to Gojaa-saah in a nearby snacks cabin.
When at St. Mary’s convent, he’d take me to saloons, every Sunday without fail. He wanted me to be ‘as sturdy as a boy’ but in a girl’s outfit. Each Sunday I saw my hair fall all over my shoulders.Unlike my younger sister who would often weep as her hair was being cut, I looked forward to it.
After the convent days, as I moved to a co-ed school, I saw the gradual growth of angst in both my parents. They would often keep nagging me about picking up tomboyish ways — yelling and walking like boys. They did try once, to cancel my admission and re-admit me in St. Mary’s Convent. But today, I don’t think that would have helped much. Three sisters had a very tough time with me. At best, what they could do was tutor me in tying my ribbons, walking like a lady and mending my ways. But I was meant to break their rules, even in a lengthy skirt, I never learnt how to walk with propriety. The feminine values that convent education strived to achieve in our lives were seldom questioned. It was in consonance with some of the family tutorials, consisting of Maahis, Khuris and Jethais. After a Bihu Dance competition, where I bagged a little consolation prize, the teachers told father “Only if your daughter’s locks weren’t this noisy while dancing, she would have been in the top three!” St. Mary’s Convent, Maligaon. Established 1966. Run by Salesian sisters of St. John Bosco. Pin-781011
Maligaon
The abode of the ‘Enlightened’ classes. New railway and civil officers and their innumerable families. Out of the total students who appear for the state civils, more than half belong to this region. The role of convents is particularly high in the making of ‘officers’. Their wives spend all the precious time tying their classic buns or chignons. They give a flawless view of the neck, especially during weddings, and other festive occasions. Their adolescent daughters tie beautiful braids, mostly the fish-tail braid. Only fishes use their tails without any inhibitions. The side braid would be a compulsory hairstyle in convent schools. For those with wavy hair roaring in the wind, they would prefer it be cut totally or be clipped multiple times, with bobby pins, large and small. “Learn something, mother would say, I won’t be around always to comb your hair and keep your hairbands safe”. As a child I failed to pick up hairstyles from the neighbourhood kids — Rashmi, Smita, Pooja. They had fine memories of how many clips their uncles had gifted them in Puja, and how many more they need to grab during Rakhi, from their brothers.
Maligaon was populated by diverse communities and due to intensive urbanisation, it was an attractive spot for migrants from small villages. There were a few linguistic cold wars from time to time, but who has had the time to hold on to old languages and their values. Any apocalyptic news affecting children would be welcome. It was the only way of uniting their parents. As their kids now swallow MSG contaminated fast food from the Chariali, once again, crossing the barriers of community, language, one can feel the abstract unity among parents. They had hosted a march, Assamese, Bangla and Hindi banners that said “Down with fast food. Fight to give your kid a healthy life”. Very famous fast food joints here, vendor replicas of Calcutta street food.
Perhaps she too, like my father, thought I would evade the discriminatory behaviour meted out to wild women, if , I became an engineer, doctor or a teacher of a convent school. Or maybe, they saw these options as a training for my wild hair — to be combed, clipped and trimmed from time to time. I am not sure.
The last time I saw such strong a protest was after the bomb blasts near the Bombay Dyeing shop, close to the bus stop. Some years have passed since. It was quite a horrific sight. One of my friend’s sister went a bit deaf, and bald after that. Last time I met her, her sister whined “Where shall I find a groom for her, now? Our Baba, suffering from cardiac problems, couldn’t bear her silent suffering anymore and breathed his last. Unable to take such pressure, Baba passed away. You wouldn’t understand. You are safe. There. In. Delhi.” Before I could say anything to her, she excitedly changed the topic — “How are things with Auntie? I see her walking by alone these days. Her hair is still very long. She comes to pluck her eyebrows in Mashi’s parlour. They lure her with hair-conditioning packages, but she refuses.” Sometimes, I tell Mashi — “Coax her daughter, the Dilliwali, when she comes here. She may need a strong conditioner!”
We laugh as old friends do, until one starts to cry. I drop her home, smile and chat with her wig-wearing sister and say “I shall come, I promise, you can pull all the hair you want, very soon!”
Parlours, Saloons, lingerie shops, stationery shops, coaching centres, and internet cafes, Maligaon’s urban contours have changed rapidly. My mother used to buy most creations of the Victorian era from here — blouses, petticoats, bras. Post puberty, my first sports bra was very special for her, “Now I am sure you will tie your hair neat and tidy,” she said. Children grow up very fast, indeed. Every time on our return trip from Maligaon, she would point towards the students studying inside IIT-JEE-AIEEE coaching rooms. A strange lament would haunt her. Perhaps she too, like my father, thought I would evade the discriminatory behaviour meted out to wild women, if , I became an engineer, doctor or a teacher of a convent school. Or maybe, they saw these options as a training for my wild hair — to be combed, clipped and trimmed from time to time. I am not sure.
Trimming
Similar to editing words, hair trimming is a hot topic. Nowadays it is costlier than a haircut, just like editors are paid more than writers. Nobody likes frizzy hair, except when they are golden like Helen’s. Many poets have fancied the subject of hair, some like Robert Browning used it to immortalise Porphyria. Her lover strangled her with her hair in a feat of obsessive passion and wrote “No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain”. Elizabeth Barrett Browning, on the other hand, wrote a sonnet “I never gave a lock of hair”, perhaps as a tribute to her mother. Barrett is willing to part with her hairlock ‘this time’ because between them lies a fond memory of her dying mother’s kiss. Mothers combing their 9 year old daughters’ hair is a common sight in Guwahati. Every afternoon like a ritual, my mother would comb my hair, lest I carried some lice from my classmates. . Unbridled desires, memories and painful secrets , all of these have been designed to tell the story of frizzy hair, a hair unlike other kinds of straight, neatly combed and tidied hair. As often accused, I behave like my hair most of the time — clingy, wild, whining and lacking in the shampoo fragrance! So, I try to trim my hair sometimes, and every time I get a new look, the old look resides in the shower drain, temporarily. New strands of hair keep growing afresh and I fail to recognise the difference. So many layers have I trimmed by now, I wonder if the wild locks are still alive. The newer strands upon turning old join the journey to the bathroom gutter, where tangled hair is usually piled up. These days but, the hair need no trimming. They have naturally learnt to wear off. The last time the plumber had visited to check the disturbances in water pipes, he complained about excessive hair in the shower drain. I gave him a pair of gloves and dustbin sheets. “Madam, I am not going to clean this, he said, with utter disgust”.
My friend, who has been learning to trim his beard, laughs at the name Medusa Beauty parlour. He suggests “Why not call the witches to collect your hair once and for all, rather than struggling with them every day?”. Maybe I will have to.
Hairstyles are truly not egalitarian, and neither are the responses to hair fall. Perhaps some kinds of hair cannot be styled. They turn their asses to the pair of scissors, clips and bobby pins. Medusa, the ‘primitive dangerous goddess’, whose hair resemble snakes, was apparently a beautiful damsel in mythology. In my last visit to the parlour, I learnt that the Medusa haircut had become somewhat a fashion statement . Some parlours are named after Medusa. Now there is a scissor for everyone. You too, can be Medusa. All you need to do is to keep trimming.
My friend, who has been learning to trim his beard, laughs at the name Medusa Beauty parlour. He suggests “Why not call the witches to collect your hair once and for all, rather than struggling with them every day?” Maybe I will have to.
That night, as he was about to snore away to sleep, I told him in a whisper — “Next Bihu, will you get me some orchids, even the fake ones will do.”