Reading is Sexy

By Muthamma Tandy

They say, if I have a dark line between my navel and my pubic bone, I’m going to have a girl; if the line is dark as well as hairy, I’m going to have a boy; if my nipples get really dark, it’s going to be a boy; If I burp a lot, my baby is going to be hairy. My hair shines and my skin glows, or so I’m told- the jury is still out on whether this means that I’m going to have a girl or boy.

None of this matters. I just can’t wait to meet you. Whoever you are. Whatever you are.

I wish I had started this sooner. This keeping-notes-of-how-it-feels; how I feel. But I’m so good at putting things off and waiting. Waiting for what? I don’t know.

I’m 27.5 weeks. You’re supposed to be the size of a cauliflower. You have also opened and closed your eyes for the first time. If your daddy and I were to shine a bright light on my bump, I could feel you move away from the glare. I wanted to try this. But your daddy vetoed the idea. I don’t mind, really. I have the rest of my life to tease you and play with you.

 I wrote most of this in my little notepad when I was 25 weeks and you were the size of an eggplant. I love eggplant. I love it better when I call it Aubergine. In India we call it Brinjal.

I spent the first 3 months carrying you, loving you and hoping that you’d be a girl. I had my first scan at the end of 3 months to see you and check that all was tickety boo in your home. The sonographer put this cold gel on my belly and touched a joystick type of thing on the gel and suddenly, on the little screen, there you were. All 64mm of you. We were so happy to see you that we started laughing. I felt a little guilty about laughing. I’ve heard that most, if not all, women cry when they first see their babies in a scan. But I couldn’t help myself. I did think about forcing a few tears but I couldn’t manage any. You were sleeping on your belly and you looked like you were on your knees praying. I’m sorry but we had to wake you up to see you from all sides. And oh boy did you wake up. You started kicking your legs and arms around. At one point, you arched your back, stretched your arms and legs and yawned. I did cry, after all.

A Taiwanese girl I went to University with told me once that the Taiwanese believe that the chopping of hair is a way to rid yourself of negative feeling. That when somebody has their hair cut, they lose any stress or unhappiness they may have been experiencing- real or imagined.

I’ve never wanted or needed to have this confirmed by anybody else or by Google. And I certainly don’t need anybody to shoot this down as a lie. I have held onto this belief, washed it, treated it and nurtured it until it has become so real to me that as soon as I decide that I need cheering up, the first thing I do is book an appointment with my stylist; for as soon as possible.

From the moment I book my appointment my hair sighs and my heart sings. My head feels lighter and even the bad hair days, leading up to my appointment, do nothing to take away the excitement of my impending visit to the Salon.  The whole experience is so blissful and therapeutic.

The Receptionist with the perfect coiffure, immaculate make up and photo ready smile, takes your coat, offers you tea/coffee/water/juice, takes you to your seat and rattles off a list of available reading material to keep you entertained during your cut. The friendly stylist opens with, “and what shall we do with your hair today?” making you feel like you won’t be the only one that will wear your haircut! And then you get whisked away to the massage lounger, where you lie back and rest your head, the perfectly shaped sink supporting your neck while your hair is washed with the heaven scented shampoo and conditioner. The pressure and temperature of the water is perfect, heavenly. I love the way the assistant always manages to avoid splashing any water on your face. As I’m being lead to the lounger for the hair wash I get the feeling that I get when  I walk out of the office on a Friday evening- the relief that the weekend has just begun and that for two days I don’t need to set my alarm. As I’m being walked to my favourite part of the ritual, I feel such glee that it has only just begun!

Then, of course, the walk back to my seat and we get down to the business. I love this part every bit as much as the hair wash- watching the stylist with the holster carrying all kinds of tools as she prods and snips away hair with such swiftness and accuracy. The chit-chat during the whole session- about family, holidays and work is nice. But, if it were left to me we wouldn’t talk at all. Not because I’m shy or introverted. But because I would much rather just watch my locks get shorter and healthier. My enjoyment needs no soundtrack.

 I do however, tend to sneak peeks at the other stylists and their clients in mirror. I compare the stylists’ hairstyles – and of course, it’s my stylist that inevitably wins, as she is the only one that doesn’t look like she has gone out of her way to look ‘unique’!     

The blow dry follows and right about now, I’m trying not to get the feeling of Monday-morning dread as the end approaches and there will be no more of this for another 8 weeks. It’s beautiful how your hair falls and does exactly as it is told in the hands of a stylist only to misbehave in the privacy of your dressing table!

But that’s the point. Isn’t it? That’s why we pay more than we should to go to salons- so that these professionals can work their magic and cast spells with their hair potions and straightening wands and do for your hair that you’re not able to.

Having gone to this length to explain one of my favourite things, you would be far from the mark to think that I’ve always enjoyed the whole hair cutting experience. I haven’t. Not always.

My earliest memory is of sitting on a low-level stool in my Granny’s back garden watching the hair fall as my mother cut off, seemingly, random clumps of a poor little girl’s hair. The horror I felt upon realising that the little girl was me. Nope, this is not the worst. In a way, this is my most endearing memory. There was also the time, my regular stylist was on holiday, and in a fit of desperation, I booked a substitute. It picked up wonderfully as soon as I got him to wash his cigarette-smelling hands!

Nope, my worst experience is also my latest appointment at a widely known salon chain- let’s call it Anthony & Mann. These salons are everywhere. They’re like the Starbucks of hair. Anyway, in a moment of haste and unthinking desperation I booked an appointment for the very next day (my normal stylist couldn’t fit me in for at least a week. I couldn’t bear to wait and hence I made that fateful call).

Arriving 7 minutes early, I was relieved of my coat, was shown to my seat, given a few magazines to flick through. I watched stylists and their customers in my mirror, happened to glance at the clock on the wall behind me and it was 10 minutes past my appointed time. I surreptitiously watched the Receptionist in my mirror as she pointed, with her chin, in my direction to a young girl. I guessed that she was to be my stylist. I was right. It was now 12 minutes past my appointed time. She ambled over and introduced herself- she looked more scared than interested. First shocker- she asked me to undo my hair band and release my hair from its bun. Now, most of us have been for enough hair cuts that we know that from the word go it’s the stylist who releases the catch and unleashes your hair. Second shocker- she asked me to run my fingers through my hair to undo knots and pull it down a bit. I was half expecting her to hand me a pair of scissors and tell me to get on with it. But, no. Thankfully, it didn’t come to that. The hair-wash, when I finally did have it, was far from relaxing- I was annoyed, to say the least, that it started so badly. Anyway, I was determined to see it through. Silly, I know. But I’m known for being pig-headed at times. I made my way back to my seat, where I was a little relieved to find that she did intend to comb my hair and cut it herself. And cut, she did.  Not confidently, or quickly, or even accurately; for that matter. When it seemed like she was going to put away the scissors and grab the blow drier, I pointed out that she had only cut on the back and on the right side of my head and had missed my left side. She was positive that she had definitely ‘cut something’ on my left as well. Nonetheless, I reiterated by saying that maybe it hadn’t been enough. Third shocker- she explained that she would rather cut my left side after blow drying it!! WHO DOES THAT??! Everybody knows that you don’t cut hair after blow drying it. Finishing touches – yes, of course. Full-on cut – No, NEVER!  But that is exactly what she proceeded to do. For, perhaps, the 6^th or 7^th time in my life I was speechless. I paid and I got out of there.

In hindsight, I see that she was in rush to finish me off to attend to her next customer who had already been seated in the chair, with reading material and a drink. I also see that she was very young, not in age but in experience (maybe in age too) to handle a seasoned hair cuttee like me. It almost seemed like she was trying to overcome her phobia of hair by throwing herself in at the deep end!

 8 weeks have passed, and I’ve forgiven her. I wouldn’t ever go back there or to any of their other branches, but it’s ok. These things happen, right? I’ve managed to book an appointment with my regular stylist for this coming Monday and I’m excited. So is my hair! 

By Muthamma Prasad

Clean Air. Friends dotted around tables. Long queue to the sole ladies’ toilet. I sat at my regular seat- a stool at the corner of the bar with a back rest (the only one of its kind in this pub).  The 3-minute bell signalling the show rings. The audience politely shove each other to get to the stairs- there are no allocated seats, you can sit anywhere. 

I’m on my second beer, half-heartedly annoyed at the smoking ban, reading a book which I switch in and out of as people move around me. The bar staff take their breaks trying to talk to me- I’m there often; they ought to feel familiar enough to talk to me about nothing and everything. Sometimes, I prefer to read my book; sometimes I wish I could talk to them about nothing.

And then, he walked in. Sober. He is old enough to be my father’s youngest brother. There is something desperately sad and pathetic about him. The way he swiftly gets pissed and tries to act nonchalant while making throw away comments about surfing and “hip” music.  I remembered the first time I met him. He shook my hand and held it for a little too long, trying to maintain eye contact that he, undoubtedly, thought was going to get him somewhere. 

The next time, he tried to talk about life and its mysteries. To be fair, he might have made some valid points, but I was too under the influence and surrounded by good friends to pay him any attention. But, today, sober, he walked in. I pretended to not notice. I knew that he knew that I was ignoring him. I felt ridiculous.

So, I looked up and said, Hi. Five rounds later, the end-of-the-interval bell rang. The audience rushed back up the stairs, a lot less politely than before. I’m sure I saw the odd elbow. And then he asked, “Where do you want to be?”        I wanted to say something trivial, something to make him realise that his attempts at being wise was nothing more than a joke to me.

In spite of the volume of my contempt for him, I said “Anywhere. I want to be anywhere but here. But, I don’t know how to get there”. “So start walking”, he said, “like the bunny  said to Alice, keep walking and you’ll always get somewhere.”

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