Hair Woes - A Sequel

I realized it was time for another of those unsavory experiences of my life – a haircut. My readers, who have been following my torments because of my rather insufferable keratinous growth, would remember how I detest haircuts. For those of you who are still unaware of the fact and have the time and inclination to suffer through one of my sagas, please click here.

I walked into a salon a little bravely this time because I presumed I have mastered the language enough not to be a guinea pig to an ambitious hairstylist’s restless fingers. After shampooing, again one of those heavenly experiences, I sat down and looked confident.

The hairstylist materialized out of nowhere with a trolley of dangerous-looking equipment. I looked at him in the mirror and inadvertently let out a gasp. I had an Emo character straight out of some hardcore punk band. He stared at me quizzically through his visible left eye. His right eye was quite hidden behind all that sleekly brushed bang of hair. Weren’t his T-shirt and jeans a bit too tight? Would their seams burst under the strain? How well can he cut hair seeing through just one eye? I wondered, a trifle panicky. He smiled beatifically though.

“Saya mau gunting.” (I want haircut)

“Style apa?” (What style?)

“Mau layer Pak. Tapi sedikit pendek. Saya tidak mau panjang.” (Okay. I will quit showing off my vernacular prowess. What I told him was that I wanted my hair cut in layer, a little short and not long.)

He set to work. I busied with a magazine, skimming through impossibly thin models sporting quite abhorrent hairstyles.

I looked up hearing a sympathetic clicking of the tongue.

“A lot of your hair is white,” he said dramatically.

“I know that, you dummy.” I muttered.

“You want to color your hair?” He asked hopefully.

I said a definitive no. I sulked. I didn’t obviously like that gray hair comment.

He went about his task without offering anymore comments. I risked a glance at the mirror and again let out a gasp. My hair was too short and standing up at all ends!

“My hair is too short!” I cried.

“Madam wanted it short,” he countered.

“Stop cutting,” I ordered, my voice bordering on hysterical.

He stopped. “One-eyed moron,” I cursed under my breath, which was quite unlike me. I usually reserve the choicest epithets to swear at myself.

Seemingly quite oblivious to my recalcitrant state of mind, he plugged the dryer and began blow-drying each hair of mine painstakingly. I again submerged into the obnoxious magazine, vowing not to resurface again.

“Madam hair is very thick,” he offered placatingly, after a while.

“Hmmm,” I was still non-conciliatory. “It falls terribly.”

“It is still very thick,” he affirmed.

I thawed a little.

After about half an hour into styling, he switched off the dryer. I forced myself to look up. I had two fringes on either side which he was proprietarily arranging to perfection. If I had looked like a poodle after my last haircut, I looked like an Afghan hound now. I creased my eyebrows.

“Madam is beautiful, this hairstyle is good,” he gushed.

Do you think so? I inwardly asked.

I smiled. I squinted at the mirror again. Maybe he can see what I can’t see. Beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder, I thought conveniently. My universal bonhomie returned and I sauntered out of the salon after parting with an exorbitant tip. And if my styled bangs lost a little lissomeness by the time I reached home, predicting what lay in the immediate future for my hair, I did not blame my Emo man.