This evening I walked into the friendly neighbourhood hair salon for a what is called a hair spa. I have terrible hair. The kind that's always inviting polite enquiries such as "you're hair is difficult to manage no?" or "why don't you straighten it?". My hair has a mind of its own. And yet, I stubbornly refuse to take more extreme or permanent measures to tame it. I think in the twisted scheme of things I actually feel challenged each morning. Most often my messy hair wins the battle by staying messy. Ocassionally I score a point and manage to get to work with hair that's (somewhat) neatly pulled back into a pony tail...a thing that most other women seem to manage with effortless ease. Sometimes, I decide to cheat and get a hair spa. I feel almost gleeful when I step out of the salon with hair that cascades down to my shoulders.
But I digress. This post is not about my hair. It's really about what happened at the salon today. I am mildly scandalised that a male hair stylist has been assigned to do my hair. A hair spa involves some degree of massaging the head, neck and shoulders. In keeping with the Indian taboo against physical contact with the opposite sex, this is normally done by women for other women and presumably by men for other men. (aside: I would be very surprised to know that men indulge in hair spas.) But I decide not to be a prude and don't protest as the young hair stylist (very professionally, I may add) begins to wash and condition my hair.
We are mid way through the procedure and there's a bit of delightful chatter in the background from a small group of women who seem to be getting dressed for a wedding reception. I listen in to their conversation about red nail polish and tan coloured compact. I slyly sneak a peek as one of them deftly creates the smoky look with a a bit of blue liner and mascara. Suddenly one of them chimes in about how women need to spend so much more time to get dressed and look good. Men on the other hand only need to shave and dab on a bit of cologne to be all set for the evening.
I try getting my thoughts together on that observation, as I watch for a reaction from my stylist, who seems unfazed. In the meanwhile a senior lady stylist in the room suggests that God made women with much more care and hence the need for additional effort to look good. Men on the other hand were made in a hurry and therefore need only a shave and colgne. She also politely adds that the lady must not grudge the additional time she spends on herself. I am amused and stumped all at once by the stylist's quick repartee which captured her thoughts and threw in a bit of advice for her customer.
The lady however seems a little offended. She launches into a long story about how her six-year old son is alone at the wedding hall. She is hassled about being away from him for a few hours.
I am not going to pretend like I know what it is to be married and a mother. I am aware that I carry with me the arrogance of being single and footlose. But the disclaimer apart, I think the ocassional guilt-free indulgence on yourself is perfectly acceptable, perhaps even healthy. Do it for yourself; not because you need to look good for a wedding reception. And seriously, your kid is probably happier running about by himself.
I tune out the chatter and my stylist works his fingers into my scalp. My face pulls into a content smile as I think about my hair cascading down my shoulders. Today I win.
But I digress. This post is not about my hair. It's really about what happened at the salon today. I am mildly scandalised that a male hair stylist has been assigned to do my hair. A hair spa involves some degree of massaging the head, neck and shoulders. In keeping with the Indian taboo against physical contact with the opposite sex, this is normally done by women for other women and presumably by men for other men. (aside: I would be very surprised to know that men indulge in hair spas.) But I decide not to be a prude and don't protest as the young hair stylist (very professionally, I may add) begins to wash and condition my hair.
We are mid way through the procedure and there's a bit of delightful chatter in the background from a small group of women who seem to be getting dressed for a wedding reception. I listen in to their conversation about red nail polish and tan coloured compact. I slyly sneak a peek as one of them deftly creates the smoky look with a a bit of blue liner and mascara. Suddenly one of them chimes in about how women need to spend so much more time to get dressed and look good. Men on the other hand only need to shave and dab on a bit of cologne to be all set for the evening.
I try getting my thoughts together on that observation, as I watch for a reaction from my stylist, who seems unfazed. In the meanwhile a senior lady stylist in the room suggests that God made women with much more care and hence the need for additional effort to look good. Men on the other hand were made in a hurry and therefore need only a shave and colgne. She also politely adds that the lady must not grudge the additional time she spends on herself. I am amused and stumped all at once by the stylist's quick repartee which captured her thoughts and threw in a bit of advice for her customer.
The lady however seems a little offended. She launches into a long story about how her six-year old son is alone at the wedding hall. She is hassled about being away from him for a few hours.
I am not going to pretend like I know what it is to be married and a mother. I am aware that I carry with me the arrogance of being single and footlose. But the disclaimer apart, I think the ocassional guilt-free indulgence on yourself is perfectly acceptable, perhaps even healthy. Do it for yourself; not because you need to look good for a wedding reception. And seriously, your kid is probably happier running about by himself.
I tune out the chatter and my stylist works his fingers into my scalp. My face pulls into a content smile as I think about my hair cascading down my shoulders. Today I win.
No comments:
Post a Comment