A Very Bad Haircut

It all started and ended with a no good, awful, terrible haircut. My hair has been halfway down my back for the past two years. I’m a longhaired girl. However, since arriving in Jaipur, India, it’s turned into a hot mess of tangles and knots. I naturally decided it was time for a haircut; four inches should do the trick! There comes a point when long hair looks rather homely and stringy – not so much mine since I have rather voluminous, thick hair. I must admit I pride myself on what I’ve always considered my “one” beauty as Jo March feels so poignantly in Little Women. Nevertheless, it was time for a reasonable cut to freshen things up a bit.

I Googled a few salons to no avail, so landed on a place I’d spied next to an expensive coffee shop we enjoy. It looked posh and sleek, though the one red flag was the name: “Style ‘N Scissors.” I tucked away my one reservation, thinking I was simply “over-thinking” which I’m very apt to do. I sauntered in with my iPhone in hand, picture at the ready, perusing the scene thinking I’d chosen well. And then...

Somewhere in the ballpark of ten men file into a line along the wall.

Are they all here for me? I wonder.

They get me to sit down, then stand up, then sit down again asking if I want a chai, or a hair spa, or coffee.

What the H E double hockey sticks? What’s a hair spa?

One pulls me over to the sink to wash my hair. He does a good job, but admittedly a little uncomfortable how “into it” he got, massaging and pulling my head back and forth, almost banging my head against the sink. He takes me over to the chair, which would later be dubbed, “the Chair Where All Dreams Come to Die.” Two other men saunter over to inspect my tresses. I think they were trying to disorient me because I didn’t know who was doing what out of this sea of Euro-trashy mullets and patch-dyed hair. This has clearly become an EVENT.

I begin to feel that I made a mistake. I pinpoint the main stylist; he is fashionable in a 1986 GQ kind of way. He promptly runs his fingers through my hair and says in perfect English (mind you, this is the only perfect sentence he spoke):

“Your hair is very bad, very damaged. We must cut it.”

Duh, that’s why I’m here.

I whip out my picture and he has already started cutting.

Shiiiit.

“I want you to cut it like this but a tiny bit shorter and with layers.” I request like a baby mouse. My courage has shrunken beneath the fortitude of my conquerors.

He looks at the picture for a millisecond. It’s my go-to shorter haircut, still way BELOW the shoulders. He nods his head.

“Yes, yes. I know this, I know.” He confirms.

I can tell something’s been lost in translation. I sense a spark in his eyes like he’s just had an idea. And I don’t want him getting any ideas. I don’t think he’s ever cut curly hair before because he says,

“Lots of body. Very nice, but very damaged.”

All the while he’s studying my hair like he’s looking at a Physics book in Mandarin. He is very puzzled. And then he does that tisk tisk thing where he clicks his tongue against his two front teeth.

Well, I’m sorry I don’t have beautiful, luxurious flowing locks like all of these Indian ladies. Geez.

He starts chopping while two other men linger about like tomcats. Chop, chop. Four inches. Chop, CHOP. Six inches. I fear I’ve hired Edward Scissorhands and it’s too late. He, in a wild frenzy to cut the tangled tresses, and me in a state of shock, paralyzed and bug-eyed, unable to speak. I cringe as he chops another two inches, the top layer already looking like Martin Luther, you know, where the hair sits right above the ears in a perfect bowl.

Speak up or you will be ugly for the rest of the year.

I’m still speechless, grinding my teeth. He is done in a matter of five minutes with all eight inches of my hair on the floor. He asks if I want a fringe. I don’t think he knows what a fringe is because he already cut one all the way around my head. Maybe that’s called a circular fringe?

“NO.”

Thank god I managed to spit that word out. Who can imagine what horrors would have ensued? A double fringe? A shave? 

Then comes the styling. Two men come over to help him.

Good gosh, what is this? I’m already dead, are they going to stuff me too?

It took three of them to get the hair just right. They pulled and curled and blow-dried until all that was left was a bouffant of layers fountaining from my small head like a cockatoo.

SHIIII***** I look in the rear mirror.

They. So pleased at the masterpiece (more like monster) they’ve created. Aaron has been signaling over to me for some time now mouthing:

“Is that what you wanted?” He looks concerned and surprised.

I am defeated, like Samson, only I’m a girl and I walked into this nightmare knowingly. In time, it will grow back. I am embarrassed to admit that I cried a few times, okay for a few days intermittently. I was able to make it look decent, almost cute. Life goes on with or without my long hair, I guess.

My friend from Kolkata with a beautiful short cut told me that I must go to Delhi next time I get a haircut. We laughed and laughed about my story. My mom rolled with giggles when I told her. All was set right except for the layers; they’re still poking out of my head in a curly bob. I’m almost thankful for these little catastrophes in my life. There is no better medicine than laughter.