When I decided to stop colouring my hair, my husband was thrilled as his crowning glory had been more salt than pepper for more than a decade now.
In fact, there was a time when his hair was quite silvery and mine was a brilliant black –thanks to L’Oreal hair colour. At one point, for some odd reason he decided to grow a beard too. He is naturally fortunate with conspicuous good looks, which enhances anything he experiments with. The beard added to his distinguished looks no doubt, but to my dismay, it was completely frosty. I flinched at its appearance. I felt it added many years to his age and by default mine too, as his wife.
I first ordered him to cut it off. He refused to comply. I changed my modus operandi and I requested him. He spurned my entreaties. When that failed, I implored him to get rid of the disconcerting stubble. He remained steadfast.
Now I resorted to terrorism. I told him that if he did not remove the offending white bush from his handsome face, I would be compelled to tell everyone that I was the second wife of this old gentleman who I had married solely for his fortune.
He was not intimidated by my threat. However, after a little while, good sense prevailed and he got rid of the outrageous facial hair. I heaved a sigh of relief.
Now, it was my turn to take the plunge from shiny black hair to a black-and-white look.
It so happened that at this point my daughter took a pregnancy test and announced that she was going to make us grandparents once again. Coincidentally, it concurred with my proclamation to go grey.
I took the decision very heroically, but was not prepared for the hysterics that were to follow.
I was advised two courses of action. One was to go to Tirupati, a district in Andhra Pradesh, where I would shave off my hair and start with a brand new crop of hair. This would hasten the process of natural looking growth, and by default I would accomplish a religious rite. Tonsuring the head and offering hair at Tirupati Balaji’s temple is done with a special purpose, i.e., while offering hair, a devotee casts off all the vices, vanities, and sins from his whole being. By doing so, he/she wants to become a complete devout. This is also done so that Shri Balaji, who is all benevolent, showers all his love, benevolence, affection, and piety on the devotee by fulfilling his/her desires.
Seemed a bit drastic and I personally felt I did not need to dispose off any major imperfections in my character.
The other choice was to disappear from the face of earth for a couple of months and reappear after a well-groomed silver mane.
The first option still looked more attractive and expeditious, but needed real daring. I have not seen myself sans hair since I was one. The not-so-appealing memory is locked away in a couple of black-and-white photographs.
In spite of that, I was seriously considering it until one night I got up sweating from a nightmare. In my reverie, I saw a head as bald as an egg reflecting the colourful lights in a pub, crafting a psychedelic frenzy with every movement of the head. OMG! I could not subject myself to be a reflector of any kind.
That left me with the only other laudable option – vanish!
But where?
“When you want something, the entire universe conspires in helping you to achieve it” – Paulo Coelho.
After that some events transpired so quickly that I could barely keep pace. We decided to spend three months in our newly acquired hill house, incidentally corresponding to my daughter’s first trimester of pregnancy. It is out of the realm of our day-to-day social contacts. It would be easier to cope with strangers rather than connections you are familiar with. After that, my daughter wanted me to come to her in America for three months to facilitate the arrival of the new born.
I reasoned that three months in the hills would sail by as I could cover my multi coloured curls with a cap or stylish scarves. The cool weather would be a decent justification. Besides, the new acquaintances I make may accept it as my style statement. By the time I would reach the US, my tresses would hopefully be respectable looking.
In my own mind, I had planned to go completely berserk with my locks using coloured chalk to highlight the silver grey streaks. Wow, it would look hip and cool! The plan seemed seamless.
However, my woes began after the first twenty days when the roots flaunted a thin layer of snow, stalked by jet black coils. With every passing day, the snow kept getting thicker yet not covering the entire top. It looked like the snow-capped peaks of the Himalayas. The sight from our hill home window looked brilliant, but when I looked at myself in the mirror I gasped at the alien image staring at me.
My daughter once said to me exasperated, “I don’t know what is so ‘natural’ about childbirth. Right from the time you conceive till the baby is born – the whole process is anything but natural!” I would reassure her saying, “These first two or three months are the toughest. You are ready to abandon the endeavour almost every day. If you withstand the first trimester, the rest is a cakewalk.”
In my mind’s eye, my predicament was far more natural – just a transition from black to grey hair. No physical stress, unnatural body changes, pica, nausea, fear of stretch marks, oedema, unnecessary shots, intake of vitamins, worry about oedema, or blood pressure like in pregnancy.
She sailed through her first trimester like a pro – experiencing no major morning sickness, nausea, swelling in the legs, loss of appetite, cramps, fatigue, or unnecessary weight gain. But my first trimester was giving me heartache. Every time I looked at myself in the mirror I would shirk. I started to avoid meeting people – something Martian to my otherwise gregarious personality. There was loss of appetite and inclination to wear something outlandish to distract attention from the top of my body toward other areas. My symptoms in the first trimester were more psychological than physical.
My supposition of cool weather in the hills was a fallacy. The days were quite warm, and covering the hair with a scarf or cap was uncomfortable. My comical look not only raised eyebrows, but I was afraid it may get me branded as lightheaded. I had to quickly abandon it.
After the first trimester (my daughter’s as well as mine), I had an inch of white hair showing at the roots, and the rest of the 10 inches was black. I had resolved not to colour it but unknown to others, I would touch it up with black kohl once in a while. That created other problems as the towels and pillows started turning greyish, and my husband knew I was cheating.
I decided that I would chop the length of my hair by half so that the proportion of black: white would be 5: 1 rather than 10:1. This was corresponding with the beginning of the second trimester for my daughter. She kept updating me about her progress – weight gain, visits to the gynaecologist, and acquiring a new wardrobe to suit her increasing girth. Simultaneously, I was busy with my new hairdo and wardrobe to match the colouring of my hair. To keep me distracted, I even took up new passions like walking, playing golf, and bridge. Mastering the varied techniques of these diverse activities helped me keep my mind off the major issue – my first ‘try’mester. After the hectic activities of the day, I would finally put my head on the pillow and drift into a nightmare-less sleep.
I braved a lot of remarks/suggestions about my mop. When someone is pregnant (and looking abnormal), no one seems very surprised. But if someone is braving an important changeover in life – no one wants to leave them alone. I was told that my looks were too youthful for a grey head of hair. Why was subjecting myself to this grief? Was it a transitory phase? Had I taken a vow of some kind? Why can’t people mind their own business?
I wonder if these comments were a tribute, or an affront to my current look.
Anyway, it was a matter of a few more days before I would be off to the western shores.
We were first going to be spending a fortnight in Germany. This was going to be my first brush with ‘western liberalism’ post my eccentric persona. Surprisingly, no one seemed to bother. People were mostly discreet, accepting, and respectful of personal choices. I could just as well have merged with the landscape around me for the kind of attention I provoked. I was pleased. To say the least, I thoroughly enjoyed my stopover in Germany – visiting the Eifel National park, seeing fascinating castles around Achan and Trier, doing the exotic cruise on the Rhine, and mingling with locals.
Now I was even more confident that the liberal American society would not care about the personal decision on my “shock” of hair.
By the time my daughter moved smoothly into her third trimester of pregnancy, my final trimester with my grey hair continued to be turbulent. I looked like a penguin with three inches of white and three inches of black hair.
We took the flight to America. In the long 24 hour haul, I started getting nervous. Not only had I stopped colouring my hair, I was now also supporting a new look with my clipped hair. My big concern was my three year old grandson. Will he recognize me? Will he like my look? Would he accept me as his nani? What if he doesn’t?
Those were the longest 24 hours for me.
At the airport, my son-in-law came to collect us. I was wondering what he would say about my hair, but he was too polite to make any comment. I wasn’t sure if I felt relieved or even more anxious.
All through the drive from the airport to the house, I thought what my grandson’s reaction would be to my modification.
The minute we entered the house, he rushed towards me. I closed my eyes in anticipation!
My grandson jumped onto me with a cheerful smile saying, “Welcome nani, I love you.” He had not even noticed the drastic change in my appearance. All my trepidations were inconsequential and all my qualms, put to rest. He loved me! He accepted me! He liked me! I did not need any certification from anyone else.
It was only toward the end of the third trimester that a semblance of sanity presented itself in my look. Now it was more the natural salt-and-pepper look with the tips showing all black. I looked rather trendy, and some people even thought I had patterned it stylishly. My daughter too was getting anxious and impatient as the last few months can be quite tiresome, though her face was glowing and there was a virtuous look about her.
Finally, the baby arrived full term. The salt-and-pepper look was complete, and each shaft of hair was now the same hue from roots to the tips.
I held the new-born delightedly in my hands. And it was at that moment that I realized that all our fears are inward. You are loved and respected for the person that you are, and not the façade that you present.
