Coloring My Hair

A few months ago, I decided I needed a major change in life. So I did what most women in similar circumstances do - I went to the beauty parlor.

"What would you like to do?" inquired the beautician.

This is always a baffling question for me. I mean, I figure it's her job to tell me what I need - that's why she's the beautician and I'm still the beauty in making.

"Er... A hair-cut."

"What kind of a hair-cut?"

"How many kinds are there?"

She gave me a patient look in the mirror, and said, "A long step-cut should suit you fine."

"Okay," I said and noticed a hair-color pack on the shelf. "And...er...can we do that too?"

"If you like," said the maddening woman.

"Okay," I said, becoming self-reliant. "Color me red then!"

"It's Golden Beige."

"Whatever."

At the end of three hours I had a new becoming hair-cut, but the hair stayed as stubbornly black as ever. The woman became a little bit more human and frowned.

"I don't know what happened," she said. "It worked just fine with another customer just this morning."

"Oh?"

"I think it's your hair."

"Oh."

"I think we should bleach it first."

"Oh, alright. If you think so."

So we bleached it. The bleach didn't work.

"It is your hair!" exclaimed the woman.

"Of course it is," I said. "I don't believe in hair extensions."

She ignored the wit and said, "If it's alright with you, I'll bleach a second time and then we'll try recoloring."

I nodded. I was starting to enjoy this. I sat back and opened one of those glossy, feminine magazines that you always find in such places and I never get to read otherwise, because

1. As you might have guessed by now, beauty parlors aren't a haunting ground of mine.

2. I'm too much of a skinflint to buy magazines that tell me :

a. How to get a man (Anyone I can get following a set pattern, I don't want)

b. How to add zing to my life (Who said it didn't tingle enough?)

c. How to choose make up (I don't wear any. I was a natural beauty until I decided to color my hair)

d. How to choose a dress designer (What's wrong with the local tailor?)

e. What shoes, hand bags, sun-glasses, cutlery, etc, are 'IN' (And OUT of my range)

Well, you know, things like that. Not knocking them or anything, they're good fun to flip through in situations like the one I was in and some of the designs are really very interesting, but, given a choice, I would rather spend on frivolous romantic novels that aren't directed towards improving the quality of anybody's life. It's a psychological quirk. I find self-improvement articles and books somewhat off-putting - they might be well-meaning and aimed at improving, but what they do first is point out the deficiencies - ones you didn't even know existed - and then proceed to inform you how things should be - the same mass-produced shoe for everyone. I remember wanting to throw a personal, much-used one at a guest lecturer back in college. His lecture on 'personality development' was at wide tangents from my developing personality, and his 'It should be this way' and 'This is how' really, truly, deeply irked. I know Aristotle said, "Know Thyself', but surely self-examination has limits? It ought to anyway. I want to be a personality, not a personalized robot.

"We're done," said the lady, putting an end to the introspection. There was a deep note of self-satisfaction in her voice, and with good reason. The 'Golden Beige' glints were now quite distinct, and I seemed a little less familiar. Not in a negative way. I nodded and cackled like the girl in the current McDonald's T.V. advertisement.

"Director saab bole, 'Tuhich Meri Chudel!'" (The Director said, "You're the witch I was looking for!")

"You look perfect!" said the lady, not amused. "The color suits you."

"Mogambo khush huwa (Mogambo is pleased)," I said, to placate her.

This film dialogue was more to her liking. She beamed at me warmly in the mirror and gave me instructions for maintaining 'the look'. We parted on chummy terms, and she said, "Next time let's try 'Deep Plum'."

Outside, my head felt like a beacon - I was sure EVERYONE would notice the change - and certainly I had more horns blared at me than ever before - a very good thing, otherwise the hospital might have beckoned!

I went to visit some much older friends of mine and stayed for an hour, shaking my hair at every chance and waiting for a comment. None materialized. Finally, I burst out, "Did you notice I've colored my hair?"

"Oh, my dear," said the lady. "Of course, we did. It was the first thing we saw when you walked in the door. But we didn't want to offend you by noticing. It doesn't matter one bit. Lots of young people turn grey early these days, you know. I suppose it's the kind of hectic life-style you lead."

I went home offended, put up with a whole spate of similar comments, and shortly afterwards went off to North-East India. It was like alighting on a branch with my own kind. Three out of four people I met had colored hair. Not because they were prematurely greying either, but had wanted to make a life-changing statement too. I fit right in. Like a fashionable shoe.