“Cut it short maa’’, I pleaded with my mother. We were very much in namma uru, Bengaluru, and winter normally meant I was completely swathed in layers of woollies, and, yes, invariably, I topped it off with a ridiculous looking monkey cap.

 And my beautiful long tresses invariably took a beating with their waves going way out of shape. Quite irritated, I decided that short is how I would go, and decided to work on that asking mom to help me with it . There was one hitch… my mother was quite reluctant to “aid’’, me with my hair looking as she proclaimed “quite bouncy and attractive’’. But, what I wanted was not to “look beautiful’’ but rather “feel comfortable’’, and winters didn’t bestow that liberty upon me. Not with my long hair. And, so, i decided to cut my hair. We sat one day, all set for the moment of reckoning, with hair literally on the end!

My mum held the scissors in hand, trembling in her very core. She dreaded doing this. After all, it was years since she had given me  a “hair cut’’. Yes, truth be said, she had doubled up all these years as my coiffeur, chef, seamstress… actually the list is endless. I truly admired her and sometimes wished I could be more like her. But, for now, I would settle with a short hair, “on demand”. And, so, began that ordeal. Well, it was so for my mother every time she had to cut my hair. Being the “sole proprietor’’ of my hair, who took such loving care of my hair, it hurt her all the more to find herself, now, at the receiving end, as the one responsible for ruthlessly “cutting them down to size’’. Anyway, with a sigh, she began the task.

 If I had only thought of the “further repercussions’’, I might have been less eager…Once the initial layers of hair were carefully snipped away, we were left with a crop of unruly hair. My mother hesitated to go any further. Impatient, I took the scissors, went into the bathroom, and standing in front of the mirror, held one long lock in hand, and, then dramatically clipped it off.

Sadly, my act was anything but possessing in finesse, and when my mother surveyed my act with horror, she saw what looked like a mish- mash. I looked at her sheepishly.

Clearly, there was nothing to do to retrieve the situation. The worst was yet to come, as I set out for a walk in morning. I skulked about embarrassed lest someone saw me with my “katora cut’’ (military style shave!); I ducked into an alley, and tried to avoid “contact’’. But, unluckily, I had to contend with the sniggers of a few young lads, who whispered, “see that guy there… you mean the one next to me…’’ and pointedly gestured, in my direction.