I have no set concept about my hair, i.e. I have no fixed hair style. I kind of always improvise on this over-head situation. At any given day, my hair arrangement is a democratic compromise between my wish and my hair’s will. Hair is one of my many not so eye catching attributes. As a matter of fact, I am the only one who gives a second, third and tenth look at my hair. I am mostly as much disappointed with my hair as Superman should be with his. At times people wonder: “What is that deep sadness in my dreamy eyes?” Well, it is actually the disappointment with my disobedient, reckless and uncouth hair. (Somewhat a father-son situation)
My hair styles have been very economical so far. My temptation for cool hairstyles never outweighed my embarrassment of being known as a look conscious guy, who I might actually be! I will not lie as much to say that I never crossed threshold of a saloon that promises a paradigm shift in your sex appeal by adjusting the lengths and colour of your otherwise dead body cells; but such visits were rare, confidential and, to my great disappointment, never resulting in to any desired improvement that could threat the confidentiality of the situation. I dare not say that this hair styling is hogwash. I know that it works wonderfully, yet it will only be fair to say that in my case, the guy with scissors and the guy with hair never shared a common idea of development.
Once, having kept my hair out of any social order for three months in order to provide the stylist a ground zero, I have gone inside one such saloon with a caveman look. But my cluelessness of what I wanted coupled with his own limited creativity, started a chain reaction, which kept on reducing my hair length with an eventual kitch-kitch sound. Did I not explain to him what I wanted? I recall myself telling him, in sobriety of a saint, words to this effect-
“I want little spikes sort of thing, you know, but hair should not be very pointy. Hmmmm, it should not be short also. Of course, it should not be a navy-cut, but then my hair can never be over-styled, you know. I would rather not look like some metro-sexual designer.” (Not that I have any reservation against them, but I just can’t carry that sort of a look)
I remember that I went further-
“ It should be little messed up, you know, like, “I-don’t-care-how-my-hair-looks” kind of thing, but it should not be shabby. It should be styled in a way that deceives the common notion of styling, if you will.”
I don’t remember how much I actually told him and how much was just echoing inside my head. But to my own surprise, I did manage to get my dream description out in that musky air of saloon. I added, “It should give me a look of – I just got up in morning, came straight out of bed without touching my hair or looking at mirror, and I don’t even know how cool I am looking- A born cool or something!”
I might have missed a few key points. It was getting over embarrassing to accept how much I had thought in past three months. You should always be honest with your doctor, lawyer and barber, as they say. But its simpler said than done.
As soon as the water spray misted my hair, I got alerted. I wanted to oversee the entire operation, and I did so, with all the various angles that I was forced to keep my head at. Even when my chin was pressing my chest, I tried to see all possible reflection to catch the glimpses of the ongoing affair. I am not exaggerating when I tell you that at one point I raised my eyes so extreme upwards, that they rolled inside. The dude with scissors did not try to hide his anger for next fifteen minutes because he nearly dropped his equipments when he had accidently seen that horrifying sight. (My undertaker movement)
I could see that the hair cut was not going in the pre-imagined direction, but I could not be sure of that. In my mind, I kept giving him directions and tips, yet in world of reality I kept mum. I rather don’t prefer to disturb a fellow when he works with sharp tools. He kept pressing my head in his desired directions, and the force kept increasing to indicate that my attempts to supervise were not welcomed.
When it all ended, I was left with some very short hairs, pointing in all radial directions above my head. He, the murderer of my dream, was trying to fool me by saying that this was some awesome new style. He tried to give me an idea to feel ahead of time and I wished, if only I had a girl friend like him who would try to make me feel like Tom Cruz, while I’d be looking like Pokemon. But he was no girl friend to me, and I was no fool to buy his crap of a compliment.
But I did not say a word of disappointment to him, for I could see his own. We stood there, in that saloon, with multiple reflections of disaster and disappointment. I paid him an amount that raised a bell in tax department.
In next few days, I used all my skills to convince people around me that all I had on my head was a bad but usually priced haircut, and their stiff nature to stand tall and pointed was merely a coincidence. Like any good man, I had a bad time. I had a look – “I just got up from my bed and came out, but in between, I slipped my finger in an electric socket.” It was an Omni-alert look. It was an always-scared look. Or perhaps, an under-paid-vigilante look. Somehow, it even contrasted my already heavy eyebrows! Once, following the line of my sight, a security guard loaded his riffle as he thought I had seen something. I looked like, for lack of a better example, a Viagra abuser.
The good part of a bad hair cut is that it passes unlike many other bad feelings. Like a good citizen, I had learnt my lesson and moved on. But something that I learnt from the event is: if disaster is probable, keep the cost low.