Curly hair not so fair

I have hated my hair, right from the time I realised that I have hair. It has never been the right kind, the right thickness, the right length, or even the right colour. While Ma had long, thick, wavy, raven tresses, I had a wispy cap that would fly in every direction with even a hint of breeze. Why a cap, you wonder? Because Ma found it convenient to comb!

Every summer I would be hauled off, screaming and kicking, to a nice Chinese lady in Calcutta, who would look sympathetic to my tearful looks but comply with the wishes of the lady with the purse.

And I’d land with a ‘boy cut’ yet again. And our neighbourhood nai would follow the cut by putting a bowl (yes, really) on my head and snipping along the rim to preserve the ‘style’.

At 12, I rebelled and threatened to bite the lady if she dared to go beyond a decent shoulder-length, and she took me seriously, and if I remember correctly, she also sided with me in
defying Ma.

I had seen women flaunt short hair with elan; mine chose to cling about my face. Someone suggested curlers—those plastic implements of torture in which you would roll your hair up and literally rocky pillow for the sake of a head full of gorgeous curls in the day. I forgot my sleepless night when I saw myself in the mirror in the morning. My hair had never looked better.

At school, I basked in the compliments for a few days. I had found the perfect solution! Hallelujah! But then a classmate looked quizzically at me and asked, “Madhu, how is it that your hair is all curls and waves when you come in the morning but lank and straight by the day’s end?” It was only my decent upbringing that saved him from a serious injury that day.

But that was the end of my curling days. I let nature have its way, and soon I had two very long chotis and then one thick one, which remained my signature non-style for years.

While my life became easier, I developed an oil-mill in my scalp. I’m pretty sure there’s a rig there that renders my hair slick every other day, and I’m yet to find a remedy that works. So once again, it’s back to staring at myself in the mirror aghast and with ill-concealed envy at literally everyone around me sporting fluffy hair nicely framing their faces while mine continue to cling around.

My hair and I hate each other. We will never be in sync. And then I meet this young person whom I had taught ages ago, and she tells me how all the girls in their class had admired and envied (!) my long braid! And then I meet a friend of mine, whom I had trouble recognizing as she has gotten her beautiful waves straightened. “See,” she chirps happily, “it’s as straight as yours, but unfortunately, my texture is not as silky as yours!”

Say what? The hair is always better on the other person’s head!