I was dead serious when I asked a certain Mr. R, “Mr. R. what’s your opinion of curly hair?”
What was his opinion? Was he going to pause before he answered? I hoped to God he would never pause because a million little things can be said in the silence of a single pause that can have devastating consequences for a relationship. Why, you might ask, was this question so important that my possible future fiance’s unknown future hung in the balance?
Like Copperfield, I will begin at the beginning.
I was born. And when I was born, I let out such a cry, mum tells me, that the minute she heard it, she knew I was going to be trouble. Then she saw the mop of curls I was born with and thought to herself (and I’m paraphrasing here) paramatma, this child is going to be just like the rest of the Kalgudi family. Apparently, this was not the compliment my grandma, her mother-in-law, thought it to be. We, of the Kalgudi family, are not exactly your run-of-the-mill ordinary creatures, according to mum, and she wondered how she would cope with another one coming into the world.
Our women, my grandma Ajji has always told me, are known for their stubborn hair. It runs in our genes, she says. My youngest aunt, the great beauty of the family, could not escape it. And now, even my grandma’s great granddaughter, offspring of a Kalgudi, has it. When I was a child living with Ajji, it was a routine every Sunday that my hair was brushed and oiled thoroughly before being washed. At least once a week, you should oil your hair. That’s what I was told. And even today, when I visit her, she sits me down to brush my hair and tells me that I should always oil it. Once a week. Without fail. My Ajji has always emphasized on the custom and tradition of our ways, lest I forget my true roots.
At the tender age of 7 when I left India to join my parents abroad, mum chopped my hair off. Her reason?
“I don’t want to sit there brushing all those curls out.” So every time they grew two inches too long, it was off to the hairdresser’s for a nice good chop. I see myself now, in those primary school pictures, a distinctly black mop of curls surrounded by blond and auburn hair, steadfastly refusing to fit in with its gentle surroundings.
I can’t remember when exactly my curls became entangled in my sense of identity. It might have been the time dad’s idiotic friend described me as ‘the girl with the big hair’ or the time I had a huge fight with mum to grow them back or the time I did grow them back and then decided to chop them off in a fit of frustration during my O’Levels, much to the shock of all my classmates. I just know that without being consciously aware of it, I began to wish I had straight, silky hair. I didn’t want to be this person anymore. When I took up swimming it wouldn’t fit in the swimming cap. When I decided to try out different hairstyles, the hairdresser told me very politely that nothing much could be done. I was tired of waking up in the morning and wondering what my hair was up to. The older I grew, the more complicated and messy it became. Life became convoluted and messy, intricate and labyrinthine, complex and confused.
By the time I came back to India, I didn’t know who I was. Ajji’s customs and traditions were forgotten. I determined to straighten my hair. Permanently. But there was a problem. My family places great emphasis on natural beauty. Random relatives were perplexed by my choices and chose to voice their opinions. Why would I want be something so unnatural when I had the best of everything? I guess you could say I was confused. I was trying to understand India at the time and our country has that effect on people. She takes you by the collar, shakes you and asks you exactly what you think of yourself. And I thought my hair needed to be straight.
I straightened it and it looked fantastic for a week, even two weeks. But you could tell the strain it was under, trying so hard to stay straight. It didn’t last very long. I went to numerous hairdressers, took many different paths to find what I was looking for. Nothing changed. When I tried to have it ironed, smoke rose out of it. My cousin and I (she suffers a similar fate) used to discuss shampoos on a regular basis, trying new brands, experimenting with different methods. No change. I experimented with banana and beer. All I learnt was that picking bits of banana out of your hair for hours makes you suicidal and beer is better in your belly than on your hair. I explored more traditional routes and tried shikaykai and tulsi. I tried amla and henna and blah blah blah. I even walked around smelling like rotten eggs for a day. It’s all a blur now.
Slowly, I grew disgusted with all those ridiculous women in TV ads who could run a comb through their hair and have it slide down with no effort at all. I started to curse girls walking around with flowing silky hair. I tried to be polite and kind to people with nice hair, the way mum raised me, but I couldn’t.
Then I swore that my future husband, who ever he was, would have to be a lover of curls. Because my hair would not become straight. And he must know this fact, embrace it and love it, even if I never did.
So you see, all those things were rushing through my mind in the instant that I casually asked my Mr. R. what he thought of curly hair. And now for the question of a lifetime. Did he pause?
No.
He said, with no pause at all, ‘I love your hair. And I always will.’
I had to make sure he understood the implications of his statement.
“Are you sure you know what you’re in for? Kalgudi hair can be complicated,” I said.
“Of course I do!” he replied. Again, with no pause.
I searched his face intently. He held my gaze steadfastly. It appeared Mr. R. was sure he could handle curly hair.
I guess that’s the moment I really started to let go and embrace things as they were. Just exactly as they were. No chemicals and no changes. No more trying to be something other than what I am.
It’s the weirdest thing in the world, but I swear it has gotten better with the passing seasons. Sure, I occasionally make the 1 hour international phone call to discuss my hair issues with Mr. R., but such calls are now fewer and farther in between. It’s still stressful when the time comes for new things, and I know I must change shampoos, but such times grow less and less worrisome. And through it all, or rather because of it, I have learnt to love my hair.
