The story goes that the one thing that the one thing that
cinched his decision to marry my mom was her long, thick hair. He says that when
he and his family came to meet the girl, he and his family was so much in awe
of her hair that his mom, my grand mom, exclaimed that the bride to be (aka my
mom) had more hair than that of all five of her daughters put together. The
only person who pooh-poohed this was my maternal grandmother, who had her own
fair share of stories about....you guessed it right, her dark, glossy, and healthy
hair.
So, When you come
from a family with women who are known for their long, thick and glossy hair,
it is imperative that you start dreaming about being able to join the club at
the earliest. At least, that's what I thought it should be from the time I
could remember. Right from the time I can remember, used to b the one gawking
at my mom's hair, admiring how my mom plaited her hair. My eyes would move on
their own volition when she parted her hair into three, and tied her braid, one
part across the other, then the other part across, watching as the long hair
braided itself into a soft and thick black rope. Her braid would hang heavy and would swerve gracefully
when she moved around. Her hair, I thought, always winked at me, taunted me,
and maybe even stuck an imaginary tongue out at me. By the time I was 6 or 7, I was determined
that I would also be the proud owner of long, silky soft hair.
What I hadn't prepared for was my mother's decision to keep
my hair as short as possible, for as long as possible. However hard I tried to
convince my mom that letting my hair grow out would be a good idea, she didn't
budge from her decision. She felt I was too young to have long hair.
I still remember
going to the salon with my mom, proudly declaring at the tender age of 8 that
"I was so over boy cut" and wanted a Diana cut for a change.
I sat in
the swiveling chair, waiting for the scissors to help me get the princess like
look I was secretly hoping for. Unfortunately, the lady at the salon declared
that I was too young for a Diana cut. She said that what might suit me, and
would be a better option would be.....surprise, surprise, a boy cut. And so it
happened, that for the first ten years of my life or so, I remained the girl
with the boy cut.
Not to be deterred, I continued admiring my mom's (and
anyone else's) hair from afar and kept myself satisfied with make-believe long
hair...fashioned from bath towels, scarves, dupattas or anything else that
would resemble hair.
And in the meanwhile, I kept pestering anyone who'd listen
to me to help me tie my hair into pig tails, resembling my favorite heroine
from the comic strip I was a huge fan of. Long story short, I honestly believed
that if I could manage to dress like her, and look like her, the genie from the
comics would be my friend too.
After multiple trials, and failure (both at the pig tails and summoning genie) I finally found my excuse to let my hair be when I was admitted to a dance class. Perhaps, it was my whining, or the teacher's insistence, but my mom decided that I could keep my hair long from now on. My father's silent permission definitely helped to move the case along as well.
From then on, my mom changed tacks and moved over to the
"Pro Long Hair" team deftly. With the same tenacity she showed in
keeping my hair short, she took over the duty of ensuring that my hair would
grow thick and black, and compensate for all the years when it was missing in
action. She concocted oils, potions and what not, and gave me the head massages with oil (along with strict instructions) on how to avoid hair fall, split ends and dandruff.
I was the kid with the new toy, and couldn't care any less
about the words of wisdom she offered. Just as any other teenager would, I
refused to pay any heed to her words and continued with my own fashion
experiments, ignoring the effect they had on my hair. Even after I crossed over the threshold of
teenage years into adulthood, I refused to take responsibility of protecting my
hair from dust, hard water, weather changes, and everything in between.
Of course, my dream
of thick, long braid had come true, but I wasn't ready to do my fair share to
take care of the precious thing. Little did I know that "With great hair,
comes great responsibilities"...and what that left me with me was a head full
of hair which on the best of days, looked and felt like a stack of straw, and
on other days, preferred to resemble Medusa's head. What upset me further was
how it felt even worse when I ran my fingers through or over it.
Gone were the days I had walked around with the enigmatic
smile, when I saw women nudging one another, pointing out my braid with a tinge
of wonder and envy. Gone were the days
when young girls gawked, and giggled when they saw my braid, reminding me of my
younger days. Gone were the days, when I tried different styles of braiding and
kept going back to the mirror to how each one fared. And definitely gone were the days, when I
could let my braid caress my neck without
the fear of irritation and red patches blossoming thanks to the attack of split
ends. And all this, when "The Braid" was back in vogue.
It is at this stage, when in desperation, I was wondering
how well the tonsured look would go down with my family, the campaign for
DoveSplit Ends Rescue System caught my attention. What can I say, other than that
Dove is the Super Man, Spider Man, and all other super heroes rolled into one,
for my hair. It has been the protector of the weak (hair), binder of all (split
ends) and maker of happy endings (to my braid).
Now, I can once again braid my
hair, and be rest assured, even without doing multiple checks, that my braid
would be the thick black one, without the "Cat dragged through it"
look.
Once again, I can renew my admittance to the "Women of Braid"
club, and hopefully stay there for longer.
How will I ever repay you, my Dove, my hero!!!
