Roots and Rebellion

For a few people like me, hair meant complete autonomy, a tangible sense of freedom. That’s because, back when I was growing up, I had zero control over it. When I look at kids nowadays with their effortlessly fashionable hairstyles, I can't help but feel a little embarrassed looking back at my own childhood photos and the weird cuts I was sporting.

Shaving off my birth hair at the age of two was a non-negotiable ritual. I don’t remember much about it myself, except through the stories my parents tell. I was a shy toddler back then; in little squabbles with the neighbourhood kids, I was always the one who got beaten up. But my parents swear that after my head was shaved, I developed such a fierce personality that I would chase away any kid who annoyed me. Soon enough, they were all too scared to even play with me.

My next major haircut came out of my own foolishness. Having caught head lice from a classmate, I was so fascinated by the discovery that I proudly proclaimed it to my mother. That was like digging my own grave. She immediately marched me down to the local barber and had my head shaved clean.

Until my high school years, I had never stepped foot inside an actual salon. The local barber shop was mostly crowded by men. So when I was little, the barber would pull up a wooden plank or an extra seat on top of the actual chair just to bring me up to eye level. To get me through the ordeal, my parents resorted to bribery: a bar of Cadbury chocolate. It was a race against time; by the time the last square of chocolate finished, my hair would be gone too.

During that phase, I deeply envied my cousins. They got to tie their hair into neat double ponytails with fancy clips and colourful rubber bands. Meanwhile, every single morning, I would stand in front of the mirror, using my fingers to anxiously gauge exactly how much my hair had grown overnight.

I was never allowed to grow my hair beyond my earlobes, trapped in a permanent blunt cut. My family was convinced that if my hair were any longer, I would instantly catch a cold. The only time I managed to change my hairstyle was in the 7th standard, when I transitioned to a mushroom cut because it was the trend at the time. Oh, how I regretted that decision! 

Gradually, my family’s control over my hair began to decline. During my senior secondary years, I switched to a stepped layer cut, which was popular those days. For the first time, my hair finally broke past its shoulder-length limit and almost reached my mid-back.

Yet, the only time I was genuinely encouraged to grow it out was when I started university. During those college days, my hair grew with such thick volume and looked so beautiful that I could finally fulfill all my childhood desires of wearing thick ponytails and long plaits, or could even keep it untied.

But then came the lows of life, and altering my hair became something else entirely. Trimming it short to shoulder-length became an act of self-care, a way to feel good, or a pure act of rebellion.

While all my friends moved out of our home state to pursue their master's degrees, I stayed behind in the same city to complete mine. Since then with every milestone or emotional hurdle, the scissors were summoned.

I came out of a disastrous six-year relationship—chopped my hair short. 

I noticed I was growing a bit chubby—chopped my hair short. 

My mental health was declining—chopped my hair short. 

My parents started pushing me towards an arranged marriage—chopped my hair short.

The sheer irony of it all! As a child, I had begged them to let me grow it out, which they disliked. Then, as an adult, I was cutting it all off, much to their disapproval. They were worried it would shoo away any potential marriage prospects, which was exactly what I wanted.

Over the years, I have experimented quite a bit. Long, short, wavy, straight, highlights, no highlights, feathers, bobs, butterflies, and a whole bunch of others. Sadly, thanks to hormonal shifts and the hard water in most of the places I’ve lived, I have lost almost 50 per cent of its original volume.

It may have taken years of bad cuts, hard water, and stubborn rebellion to get here, but atleast every single strand left on my head belongs entirely to me now, and I am still experimenting……