Committing

I’ve decided that I’ll be posting things every day from now on. 15 words, 20 words, 200 words, whatever it may be. I can’t be apologizing to my future fans every time I post something on this little space I hold so dear.

I’m hoping this also allows me to track back on the things I experience in University. (not college) – day in, day out. Like a diary. A rather public one.

Coming to what happened today.

I missed my father.

Since I’ve been born, my haircut/hairstyle has been my father’s domain. He’s figured out which barber to take me to, and because our hair is the same type, he’s got me haircuts that won’t look horrible on me. For the most part (I still remember the mushroom, Appa).

My dad took care of this haircut business. He used to tell the barber exactly what to do, gaze at him with steely eyes as the haircut took place, and ensure I walked out of the barber shop feeling light-headed (see what I did there?) but with all of my God-given looks intact. All I had to do was sit in a chair, try not to fall asleep, and move my head around as I was instructed.

I’ve shared a special relationship with my Barber, Bob Uncle. He’s been a very important part of my life – I picked up my first words of Hindi from him. When we moved to India, my dad and I struggled to find someone like him. We didn’t succeed, but my dad managed to explain the haircut we needed to the new barber.

I was terrified about destroying the way I looked every time I sat in the chair. I prayed that I didn’t get a mushroom cut and reminded myself that my hair would grow back. My prayers worked and I never switched barbers till I moved to Gandhinagar.

My barber here is a chiller. He runs the only A/C saloon, yes. Saloon, in Bhaijipura. He has a TV which plays Taarak Mehta ka Oolta Chashma on repeat, and he experiments with his hair more than Paul Pogba does. He’s a star.

I’ve visited him 9 times now – once a month when I’m in Gujarat. He never messed up. Not once. My broken Hindi and my “combing” action did the charm.

Till today.

I asked for a medium-short haircut.

Unshaved, I now look older than I really am.

Clean shaven, I look like a champu.

What are these extremes.

Time to oil my hair furiously.