Lock, stock and scissors

                           Ishita Mandrekar

            It is always a traumatic experience. All those gleaming instruments shining in plastic trays, watching bits and pieces of yourself fall away like leaves in Autumn. It can make you feel bereft, stirring something deep in your heart as you watch each strand fall to the ground like a dead leaf; knowing that it has been taken away from you forever, and yet you walk in periodically through those glass doors into that shining edifice of glass and concrete walls with the vast marble flooring, the metallic flints of which dazzle under the clinical, white light.  This is  hallowed ground. A place where thousands have come in search of themselves - the inner self which emerges after a shiny pair of scissors have snipped away the superfluous layers of perception and outlook. It is sacred. It is my cocoon; from which I usually emerge redefined and glorious ready to flit around confidently, but today as I sit in front of the mirror, watching the tall, blond woman map out her creative handiwork which is going to define me for the next four months, I’m scared.

            I was not prepared for this. I am not ready for this. To entrust myself into the hands of this stranger who has the power to mould my personality. Celine is the consolation prize for Jerome’s absence in the salon. The next best stylist, who is highly recommended, but  I can’t be sure. You can never be sure. You just have to trust. Like I trusted Paul, trusted in the fact that he would never let me down till the very end, when all that trust fell off in pieces, scattered and discarded.  A haircut is like a relationship. It’s a permanent thing; at least at that moment you feel it’s permanent because it changes the lines of perception between you and the world.  You have to sport it, good or bad. If it is good, you bask in the light of happiness and if it is bad, you have to grin and bear it. It  begins to define who you are. Every wave, every layer, every crimp  reveals a facet of your personality.

            Celine takes out her equipment. I grab the paperback that I’ve bought along with me with the sole intention of distracting myself during the whole process. She doesn’t know me. She doesn’t know that I hate short hair because it reminds me of my school days when my mom used to cut it so short that I used to look like a boy, choosing to live through oblivion rather than be looked upon as ugly. It’s taken me almost a year to grow them out- the same amount of time I’ve known Paul.    

            “Do you have anything in mind?” she asks me politely, in her heavy French accent. This is the part I hate. I hate opening my mouth and telling them what to do. I don’t want to come across as some authoritarian who gives them no creative freedom and I don’t want to be responsible for my looks. Paul hated it when I said that, he always told me I had to make up my mind and take a decision. Ironically, he didn’t give me a chance to make the one that mattered the most. 

             Celine clears her throat and I realize she’s still waiting for an answer.

“I just want something low maintenance, that doesn’t need styling everyday, I don’t like a fuss. But layers would be nice.” I want to tell her, I want to tell her I hate experimenting and taking risks, I’m done with crazy styles. I just want something safe and tasteful but all I manage to blurt out is, “Just don’t cut it short, that’s all.”

She nods, smiling happily. I guess creative freedom is rare in this country. I only hope she doesn’t take it for granted.

            I hate this situation. You see, this is the problem with sticking to one stylist. You’re so complacent in that familiarity, in that knowledge that you’ve made the right choice. You feel safe. There’s that  level of comfort and understanding that gets you building a lifelong commitment based on months of respect and comfort. A till-death-or-bad-haircut-do-us-apart kind of relationship, except it’s none of these that is responsible for this painful separation from Jerome- my regular stylist. It’s marriage. His marriage, which inspired him to quit his job and move to Bermuda.  So much for commitment.

             I go back to my novel, the whole process is too painful for me to watch- those chunks and snips of my hair falling away. Weird. I used to have shorter hair when I first met Paul, styled in a manner that reflected my age which was almost half his. It’s the only reason why I grew my hair-to look older. It was the only effort I had to take to fit into his world. Now I feel the need to tear it off, to snip it off like Paul snipped off the relationship. He wanted me to live my life, he wants me have a chance at happiness, at marriage and kids, something that he couldn’t give me.  He decided breaking up was best for me. I wish he’d asked me- “Do you have something in mind?”- before he snipped the scissors.

            I don’t look up until she tells me to, and even then, I slowly raise my head to look in the mirror. The way I did a few years back, when I entered this hallowed space during my university days. Back then I had walked out with red streaks and a wild style. Now I stare at the woman in front of me and can’t label her. She’s neither a girl nor a woman. She’s neither no nonsense nor funky. She’s just a woman with beautifully styled hair that doesn’t  suit her. My eyes wander to the heap of chopped-off hair lying on the white, marble floor. Unwanted and useless, chopped off because they weigh me down and make my style look heavy. “We need to lighten the weight,” Jerome- my former stylist, used to say running his hands through my hair, “you hair needs freedom to move.” “Don’t waste time on memories, they’ll only hold you back,” Paul had said at the doorstep, the day we went our separate ways. A year of living together and that's what he leaves me with- a sermon.

            I feel betrayed and let down. Is this how I get repaid for my loyalty? How could Jerome do this to me? How could he just abandon me in this strange, scary world of stylists ? Did he not once think of how I’d cope? What it would do to me? Now I’m left with this stupid haircut that makes me look more like those young, wanna be models who wait tables for extra cash. I’m not a model, I’m just another woman who likes tying her hair up when she’s working, but there is hardly any hair left now that is long enough to be tied up. It’s all chopped off, swept into some trash bin labelled ‘organic waste’. My hair looks black because there’s no longer enough of it to shine in the sun. The sunlight will not bring out the underlying streaks of auburn that I’m so proud of. Now I’m just an ordinary woman, with a trendy haircut that falls like pieces nibbled by a rat.

            “Do you like it?” Celine asks me.

I want to tell her I hate it. I want to tell her how I feel. I turn to look at her and feel something that I haven’t felt in months - light. She’s chopped off all that long hair that used to sway and swing every time I turned my head.  It doesn’t fall with a bounce on my shoulders, sliding down my back. The weight is gone.

            “Thank you.” I tell her, managing a smile. She takes it as a yes and smiles back. I pay the small fortune called the bill and walk out, knowing that I will have to wear my hair pinned up for a month till it grows out enough to be tied in a ponytail. Knowing that it will take more than a can of hair spray to control the damage. Knowing that I will never come back to her again because, as good as she is, she’s not the right stylist for me. I only begin to cry when I’m safely seated in my car. It is only hair, it will grow back in time. In a matter a few months I won’t even remember this haircut but for now, I cry.