I get my hair cut once a year. When the strands of grey decide to strengthen their tribe, and the few black strands get insecure and leave in a huff. Then, I know it's time for a haircut. Never before - those fancy salons are expensive. Rs.250 for a wash-n-cut. And of course, it's a fashion suicide to go to the para'r "Lakshmi Beauty Parlour - We cut hare, padicure, threding, waxing and ladies beauty faecial for marriage purpose".
I also cut my hair when i'm disgruntled. With something or other. Let's skirt the issue of possible insanity and call it a delightful quirk.
My last haircut was before Pujo 2005, so the scheduled next one should have been around Pujo '06. But then, D told me he was leaving the country for 4-5 years, and I thought it would be nice to know absolutely zilch during the Queer Studies mid-sem and the gynaecologist told me my ovaries are being targeted by aliens - so, all in all, it was time for a haircut.
I shan't deny it - I like going to these fancy salon/parlour places. Not only because they make my hair smell good, my head feels light, like a weight's been lifted off it, but most importantly because of the ambient noise. The conversation. High society hoopla. I'll tell you a secret - I actually take care to dress well for my haircut. I want to fit in. And observe.
It's like watching a play. Droves of middle-aged "society ladies" gagging over each other's Ritu Kumar's, discussing the 14 different themes for the 14 different parties that will precede and succeed their son/daughter's wedding. Fascinating.
BJ[The hair-stylist and owner of this new, upmarket hair salon. Famous mama of make-overs]: Oh, darling, so nice to see you! You haven't come in, in 3 weeks!
Lady in mid-40s[I'll be honest - she was elegantly dressed, and looked sensible]: Oh, BJ! I've been so busy planning my trip to LA next month, I haven't had time for come in for my Dead-Sea pedicure!
BJ: Oh! LA! I was there last month, only! Check out the shopping mall on Upper Eighth Street!
When you've grown up getting "boy's cuts" from the neighbourhood Kim Ling, where your cook also, incidentally gets her eyebrows done before the monthly sunday family outing to Diamond Harbour , a place where the haircutter and the haircuttee both vacation abroad, is fascinating.
Until of course, the bill says Rs. 565. For a shampoo and a haircut. Hair cut in layers because, "Darling! [pronounced: dulling] Only layers for a fat face! Layers and layers and moooore layers!" Told you - theatrical.
Now I have to wait 2 years for my next parlour party - I've grossly over-budgeted this one. Which means 2 years of ignoring frantic pleas from hair follicles to give them a nice massage and trim - this time they'll file for divorce, I just know. And 2 years of not getting depressed or disjointed or feeling any extreme emotion. Awful.
In other news, was accused of harassment by a Gariahat hawker. All because he'd asked Rs. 95 for a pair of pants and I'd said Rs.40 and stuck to the deal, and then when he agreed and put the pants in a polythene bag, and stretched his palm for some good dough - I spotted a better shade of pants in the adjacent stall and moved on. Thrice. As in - repeat whole exercise three times. Ki korbo- ALal wants an exact shade of ashen night attire for the play. Beckett's instructions.
Now Squee and Fish and SELL[Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands. Friend-of-Fish.] refuse to be seen with me after the Gariahat debacle.
Thrice a day, every day, J takes a long look at me and says,"You're dead." And it's not a threat, she means that I don't look like a live person anymore. By which you are to draw the conclusion that I look like a dead person. So much for trying to go with the "nude" look and not wearing any kajol. hmph.
D now lives in Minneapolis in a house with a swimming pool overlooking a lake. I feel the most brilliant things for him. :-] Which explains the sudden energy to post and get back to normal life - I've heard from him, he's alive and only has minor diarrhoea. Life, as it were - is oh-awrite-ish.