My name, I’m told, means long hair, and I was so named because I was born with a full head of dark hair. It’s a cute story but knowing my parents, I seriously doubt they waited till I crowned and at that moment had that simultaneous thought. But it’s short name, most people can pronounce it and by and large, it’s been ok.
Except for the problematic relationship I’ve had with my hair. I was never the pretty little well behaved princess, so I chose to be the tomboy with whom my father connected. He would often remark distaste fully on the frills and furbelows that accompanied female wardrobes. The dangling dupattas, Christmas ornament jewelry, makeup of any sort, and flowing open hair. I was happy to chop off the oily braids and adopt the “boy cut” as it was called, disdaining the idea of having bangs or pretty curls. That was when the thought of hair touching my face became an anathema, something I avoided for the rest of my life.
I (and my parents) rediscovered the tattered battered remains of my femininity in the transition from twelfth grade to college, but by then the damage was done. I could grow my hair, but I couldn’t bear to fuss with it or allow it to hang free, and looking for a less stressful low maintenance option, I got it permed. 15 days before my second professional exam. They didn’t do a good job. The hair was off my face BUT I had a Mohawk. Sort of. A country music business in the front, party in the back and pure rebellion up top haircut that I had to pull off during the prof exams for which I was least prepared (shout out Path, pharma, micro). After living that decision down for about 4-5 years, I got sick of my braids and met with a friend/stylist who assured me the perm had not been done correctly but she would do a better job. And so yes, a few days after a huge traditional wedding, I went in for my second perm. It was an interesting year.
For the longest time after that, I futzed around with different lengths of bobs, layers, bangs etc but they all ended up in a twist at the back because I needed the tendrils to stay put. So seductively easy is that move, to gather them up, deftly turn the bunch and snap a clip on. It never failed to make me look like desi aunty at subzi market and I was by and large ok with that. I was a desi aunty at subzi markets. I owned it.
Clipons were a game changer. I realized I could escape the whole styling tamasha with clip ons, I could reduce my mirror time by 50% while looking more finished. I invested in several, and was quite honest about them, sharing my laziness with anyone who happened to complement the additions.
They allowed me to do what I really love, have hair short enough in the back that my neck is bare, as controlled in the front so none of it touches my face. And every time I have a hair cut, I exult in the feeling of freedom, of not having to use that clip and still be comfortable. I can appreciate the gorgeous rippling locks tumbling down my friends’ backs, but I, Alka Long Hair l, will stay a traitor to my name.
