Caught by a hair string

For middle-class dads who wish to visit their children in America, a visit to a salon to get a deep military haircut is customary. The logic is simple and straightforward: haricuts in the US cost $20–$30. That is Rs 1600–2400 in Indian rupees. Back in Bharat, a no-frills haircut costs as little as Rs 200 in Bengaluru and even less if you are residing in smaller cities.

This time, I could not go to the salon and landed in America with a rich crop on my scalp. I postponed the haircut for two long months, after which it was impossible for me to visit temples or attend social gatherings without inviting curious looks and suggestions from both friends and strangers.

My son volunteered to take me to a salon. He nostalgically remembered the days when I held his hands and took him to the salon, patiently sat till the procedure was completed, and then gave him a bath. He considered himself fortunate that he could repay the runa (debt) by taking me to the salon now. He said, “You would have a haircut in the hands of a woman for the first time in your life.” He went on to describe the lady of Chinese origin as loquacious in nature and conscious of her looks. He trusted her with his scalp right from his bachelor days.

The lady, it seems, asked him every time he visited about his marriage. He replied that the parents were looking for a suitable match from India, and she used to volunteer to find him a match from among the many beautiful blondes and brunettes that visited her salon. During one such conversation, overcome by emotions, my son said to her, “Madam, I am overwhelmed by your concern, and I see my mother in you.” The lady was furious and told him, “I am not that old; at best, I am like your sister.” He had to apologise profusely for hurting her.

So we reached the salon, and as expected, the lady inquired about my work and life in general in India. Without my asking, she told me about her children, divorce, and arduous single parenting. I was moved by her story, and with age behind me, I consoled her, saying everything would fall into place in due time. A relaxed CL was listening to me with attention. I should have stopped. But egged on by an attentive ear, I went on about the karma theory and even said she was like my sister.

At the very sound of the word sister, her countenance changed. She said with a frown: “I am not that old, and I am young enough to be your daughter. Both son and father make illogical and inappropriate comparisons.”

It was my turn to profusely apologise to her as my son hurriedly paid her, took me by my hand, and led me out of the salon.