HairSnip.com

Our family is a family of strong beliefs and a weak excuse. Belief that long, untrimmed and full hair is a sources of energy, bliss and goodness. That no one should ever cut, even a single hair from any part of 'her' body, unless, prescribed by a medico! (A medico? This weakest link in the chain makes the chain as weak, rather weakest)

But since my childhood, presumingly due to this prohibition, I have always found temptation in the word and action 'haircut, shave' and this has always motivated me, tempted me and given me so much energy and bliss and satisfaction. The sight of trimmed hairends or haircuts on girl or ladies is such a pleasure sight for me, that I can not describe it. This is something which I always wished to have, but due to religious compulsion, this dream could not be realized or materialized.

My mother however is a subject of my jealousy, as even if she has been a member of our family, she flaunts a very 'sophisticated' style statement, with her hair cut to shoulder length, eyebrows made perfectly well, arched and pencil thin, and armpits shaved with reverse blade, and no hair, worth a name, on the face, all clean and nice, sexy and slippery, rather slithery like snake hide/skin. I also want to look sexy like my mother, but whenever I tried to convince or persuade any or both of my parents, they would shower a lengthy address on me, like it is a sin in Sikhism, it is prohibited, it is a game of gamy and unreligious, unmoral and unethical gals and ladies, and whenever I pointed out my mother's haircut, I was blankly and bluntly and boldly told, "Your mother does not want to be a trimmer or a sinner. But, she has no other option, she will die if she does not cut off her lengthy tresses." My mother would then sob, and give vent to her love for hair, saying, "I really cry when they cut or shingle my hair, but I had no option. I have to get it cut, as SEE…." And, then one day, she showed me a medical certificate,

"Dr. Katherine Johanasana hereby proclaims that some eerie sort of ailment has been found in her scalp and if she keeps her hair long, the chances of her survival may go down, may dwindle." This page with a few letters, scribbled in a very bad handwriting and the paper being very old, brittle and dirty was very new, strong and clean chit for me to do something. "Do something MANDY," my innerself shouted at me. The next day was holiday, due to which I had the time to think and think out. I called my longtime friend Monyka on my mobile. She was busy, and I had naughty and hair-fetish ideas, hovering over my mind, and I went back in my reverie and reminded my self of all the trendy cuts, which I have so far beheld. The old dreams and all visited my mind again.

Bewitched, and with an 'aim' to get my hair cut at any cost, and to do every hell, to persuade my parents, I enter my mother's room, where an almirah of hers, is left open and the key is tangled in the lock. Without any hesitation or ill-will even, I open the almirah entrance door, with nothing in mind, just to time pass and see what she reads and all, and I saw a copy aside, with a few lines scribbled on each of the pages. I am surprised, this is URDU language, which is as tough for us Punjabis, as Latin or Greek is ancient, rich but intricate language. I could not make anything out of what was written. I had a friend Koykam, in Gurdaspur, who knows it well, and I had always liked or wished to learn this lingo. But I had no time even. Even today, I want to join the evening party with jeans, cutting and shaved underarms and arched eye-brows!!!

Today, and no tomorrow, NOW or never! I called Koykam on landline phone and she was there and I told her about my dilemma. She was simple and clear. Send it by fax, which I immediately did. She got it, and as they say PAT CAME THE REPLY. She transcripted every word in simple English and sent to me by e-mail. Her English speed of thinking, writing and typing is as fast as mine and that was a bliss as I got the reply within seconds/minutes. I read and read and cried and laughed and ultimately I was surprised, as in earlier pages, she has shared the pangs and trauma of her early days of life and her long hair, always teasing her, and finally the chapter A WISH, which could NEVER FULFILLED and under it, there were several lines, expressing her love for the HAIRCUT, and reading it, I relished and it occurred to me that I had 'inherited' hairfetish from my mother and the last page was an eye-opener 'YAHOO! WISH FULFILLED' and there she mentioned how she herself prepared a fake certificate and wrote the 'favourite' prescription of haircut from an imaginary doctor Katherine or so, and this ends the chapter as well as the book. The expressions of delight, shock and surprise appeared on my face.

Immediately, I swithed on the computer system, and in almost same or rather more authentically prepared an identical note and prescription and got it in my reticule (purse for females) and went off direct to the beauty parlor or salon. Midway, all the horrible moments, my suppressions and depressions and all the 'hairy' saga kept on teasing and irritating me. I was on seventh sky and I wanted to have a last look at my long hair, before they are pieced away. I also wanted to pen down my feelings, so I went to my friend Juyaan's home and got a pen and copy and wrote down all my feelings, when she prepared noodles for me. I give her similar treatment when she visits me, and we are too good buddies. During these moments, I penned down all what was going on in my mind. I wrote-----

I was born in a rich family, with very strict faiths and extreme beliefs in culture, religion and so-called Sikh ethics. I wanted to enjoy the life full. I wanted to enjoy every moment of my life. But my parents had always thwarted me from getting my wishes fulfilled. They believe that if a girl trims her hair, or gets a cut, bob or any other, she is looked down upon in the society, even as many of the girls in our society today are having short hair and they are rather looked upto as the symbols of modernity and high status. In other words, haircuts have become a status symbol for the modern girls. But I do not know why my parents are so much against it. This has caused an upset in my mind. Psychologically I feel at sea and in dilemma always. I am sort of hair fetish or so, and I want to quench this thirst by hook or by crook, or cutting!!!

I hag a hard time developing the discipline it took to fulfill the destiny that was laid out for me. To me, these spiritual prophets are political ideologues. I dismiss their faith as jargon. I do not see it, cannot feel it, and have no evidence of it existing around me, so I follow my pleasures and passions as a young adolescent Indian girl who has bought into the illusions of this world: standardized beauty, romantic love, and the power of money.

I want the attention of friends. I want the attention of all of the boys. I want to be picture-perfect stepping out of the swimming pool with well-styled hair. I want to swoon with my classmates over our class pictures, squealing in delight about how nice, beauteous and cute we look. I want to date Romp-Bambaa.

But all of this was not going to happen with all of this long, frizzy hair. I mused. Maybe if I imitate my classmates' hairstyles - Glory's bangs, or Sur's bouncy blond bob, or Jaana's perm - I'll have a chance.

In my freshman dorm at the Panjab University at Chandigarh, I am surrounded by young women fawning over their tresses all day and night. Deep conditioners, natural dyes, wave relaxers and mousse are must-have helpers. Fraternity parties, house parties and international parties call for one- to two-hour sessions in front of the mirror.

But my choices are limited: a ponytail or pigtails, wearing it down with a part in the middle or to the side, a tight or loose bun. Okay, there are choices, but something about my hair feels stale, like old bread. It is ancient, musty, and tired.

In my hair, my mother, aunt and grandmother nest with their stories, their histories and their spirits. They sit on my head waiting for me to hatch into a woman who makes a difference in the world, who makes a habit of acting fearless in moments that demand it.

The women in my family believe that my hair will purify my thoughts. They believe I can expand my thinking with my hair; all the positive energy in the world will be transmitted to me through my hair. Midnight tresses are rolled up into buns at the napes of my mother's, aunts' and cousins' necks. My grandmother wraps her salt-and pepper hair into an acorn of a bun, nesting her love for God and her ancestors' heritage into her hair.

But I am convinced that this is not for me. I am convinced that I belong to the world and the world is a better source of authority for me. The distance between my parents and me grows with fewer conversations and an ocean of misunderstanding. I decide it is time to push forward with something new - defined by me - something I can call my own. (This tale ends, and a new starts. Now there will be a NEW story and this will be part of it, and …ahh..I can't believe I WILL WRITE THAT NEW STORY WITH MY HAIR CUT AND EVERYTHING ELSE SHAVED, EYEBROWS PLUCKECD, THREADED AND PITS WAXED!!! I could not imagine, how would I look so sexy and sophisticated after the haircut!)

After this, I looked my self in the mirror, untied my hair and again looked at the same. Boring, long, uncut, untrimmed hair was a common-monotonous sight and as always as all, my friends say to me, Juyaan again said, 'Why do not you part with your boring, so long hair?' I answered not with words, but with a nod and a smile. 'naughty girl', she proclaimed, knowing that I am just saying so to keep her heart, but what was there deep in my heart was not known to her. I kept the secret tied to my heart, so that before the FINAL CUT, no one could know and spoil the cut-game.

The sizzling MOMENT came………….

I step into Choicest Snip Salons on Seventh storey of D-Streets in uptown Sector 12-A. I am convinced that this decision will alter who I am and carve out an entry into my real life, a life waiting to be defined. Inside the salon, peroxide mingles with the receptionist's cigarette smoke.

"Who are you here to see?" The receptionist smashes her cigarette into the ashtray and scans the appointment book. Her sandy blond hair is cut like that of a choirboy who does not own a comb.

"I'm here to see Demira for a hairstyle ... um-m, a haircut," I tell her. It is no big deal, I try to convince myself. Everyone gets haircuts. Relax.

" Demira, your three o'clock is here!"

Demira greets and ushers me over to a hot-pink leather chair that competes with the black-and-white checkered floor. Cotton-candy-colored vanity lights line the individual station mirrors. The scissors, wax, waxing equipment, hair-removal equipment, shaving creams, after-shaves, spritzers, mousse, hair relaxing serums and alcohol-free finishing-hold sprays confirm that hair care is a commitment that cannot be taken lightly. Shingled hairlets, shavings, wax-pluck remainders, snippets and cropped hair were lying around, down on the floor. Demira lifts my thick braid of hair over my head and lets it drop. Her hands are careless, unlike Mama's. She has a mischievous smile over her face.

"Wow, what thick and curly hair you have."

For Demira, my long rope of a braid is just hair, humdrum strands hanging out of my head.

"Did not you ever have a cut?" she enquires looking deep in my eyes, as if asking, "you never had seen a dog?" as if it was so natural, so-so natural, not perhaps knowing that haircuts are a taboo in my family, but it is just due to my being away from my family, from my city, from my relatives and from my society, that I am getting a chance to get a haircut, and God knows, if I will get any chance in future or not, to 'experiment' with my hair. My 'unmade' heavy and over-grown eyebrows, and the underarm hair peeking out of my sleeveless tops were also something, about which I was thinking at that time. She said to me, "you did not reply!"

"No, I had never." I could not speak more.

"Your eyebrows are so heavy and big. Do not you get time to get it threaded?" she asked again.

"It is not allowed as per my faith, religion, I mean. Not even haircuts."

"But I thought you have come for the same. Not?"

"Yeah, but only once and for one time."

She looked at my armpits, where the hair were peering outside, causing embarrassment for me. But I ignored it again. I looked at the front wall, where the full-size photograph of a high-profile Aishwarya Rai, with her shoulder cut hair, hanging around her face were tempting me to have a haircut as early as possible and be another Aish-like personality.

"Okay, so do you have any ideas?" she asks, breaking my day-dreams.

"Not a bit even. I had no experience." I trembled, as I thought of what would be parents reaction, if they learnt that I had a cut.

Her clumsiness makes my heart pound faster. I feel my hands quivering, so I sit on top of them and attempt to look genuinely interested. I scan the top of the mirrors for all the European cuts: pageboys, what looks like a Cleopatra cut, and simple unassuming bobs. It's exciting to think about how I might change, but something keeps grabbing at me, telling me to leave this place, to just get out of here.

But I won't. My head pounds, weighing heavier and heavier as I take in all the pictures. I survey Demira's red, curly, turn-up-the-volume hair. It hangs an inch off of her shoulders. I have to answer her, but I don't want my hair to look like hers.

"Umm . . . a bob looks nice, or maybe a Cleopatra cut, or . . . I don't know. What's the difference? Just cut it."

Demira's eyes widen and her eyebrows bob up and down looking like she is going to skip the Are you sure? or Wanna think about it?

My heart is thumping, and I see my entire family reacting sharply, scolding me, and my father asking me to quit the house.

Just shake it off, I tell myself, it is just a head of hair, and everyone gets a haircut. Well, everyone except for Sikhs, Rastafarians some Native American tribes - and my entire living family.

Maybe I'm not a Sikh, or don't have what it takes to be one. I am the weakest link. I'm one who wants to be Sikh, but with shoulder cut hair, with armpits shaved, with eyebrows plucked and threaded. A Sikh girl, who likes the words like threading, shave, cutting and so…..

Demira's steel blades skim my neck. She struggles to cut off a lifetime of hair in one snip; it will have to be severed off, decapitated. Half of my braid is disembodied from the back of my skull. I close my eyes and wait for it to be over.

"There you go, hon," Demira says, holding my thick braid in her hand, like a dead animal. "I'll put it in a bag for you so you have a souvenir to remember it by."

When Demira hands me the bag with my braid, I gingerly set it on the floor. I hear her mumbling something about styling my new hairdo, but my mind is somewhere else.

I really did it. What did I do?

Demira uses smaller scissors to "style" my hair. Her glossy lips smack together as she talks, but I can't make out a single word of what she's saying until she's finished with the scissors.

"Okay! A quick blow dry and we are finizio."

She blow-dries my hair and asks me to do a quick flip of my head. I see myself in the mirror with tussled hair surrounding my face. I had expected something different. I thought it would be different.

Later, I get together with my roommate, Martha. She holds her hands to her mouth when she sees me. She looks like she is going to puke.

"Oh my God! You look so cuuuuu-ute!"

'Cute only? Not hot??? Not sexy???' I ask when someone asks me, and the answer always fills me with delight and pleasure, and satisfaction. I run my fingers across the shaved patch on the back of my neck. I think and relish about this cycle of growing out my hair, cutting it again, growing it out again.

I really cherish this process and all.

In the evening, I joined the party where no one could identify me as I was looking 'different' and I relished the party for the first time in 'real' there, and going back home, I 'persuaded' my parents with that 'prescription' chit from some medico Dr. Reliance. Papa looked at mother and said with a little dissatisfactioin on his face, "O! our Mandy has also inherited the disease from you. Now, what can we do? We are helpless, before God now. So, have you got the cut?"

He asked looking at my hair hanging above my shoulders, and said, "Do not worry, you are looking not bad in your short hair," and mother said, "rather beautiful, cute, mod and sexy!" Father bumped back, "yes, I agree, haircut suits her, as it suits you, but we have to keep it long as per guru's direction, and now when doctor prescribes and beauty describes, who am I to conscribe?"

And, flowing my shingled, cropped bob, I entered the room, undressed my self completely and for the first time in life, beheld my hair-less body. It was so sexy that I wanted to RAPE myself. But, I had no penis, and so, I take one articial banana, made of plastic and is smaller a little than the ordinary/natural banana, and placed it on the table nearby, and for many hours, I just relished myself. 

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