Interpreting hair styles

By R. Akhileshwari

Stereotyping makes life easy. It helps most folks to “understand” situations, people and events. The trouble begins when you are stereotyped into what you seem to be but are not. Short hair (bobbed, in our lingo) on a woman can mean many things to many people, and often it means erroneous things. Invariably, you are “Madam” and not the usual “amma” to the autorickshaw-wallas, bus conductors and fruit and vegetable vendors. Why back in the 1970s which belonged to Mrs.Indira  Gandhi, cheeky youngsters would shout “Indira Gandhi” on seeing me.

          Illiterate women on the other hand seemed to be in awe of short-haired women. Once, two women labourers were walking in step with me. They got whispering as we hurried to reach our destination. One of them gathered courage and drawing closer to me, asked in broken Hindi, what is the time, amma. I responded in Telugu. She was taken aback and went back to her friend and giggled in Telugu, “Arre, she speaks Telugu.”

          Not always was I so “un-Telugu.” My knee-length hair was the envy of all, and interestingly, a sure draw of male attention. Fellow girls would point out that my plait was longer than the mini-kurtas that were in fashion then and that we wore over skin-tight churidars. The nasty landlady, who harassed us for rent that we frequently defaulted on payment, whispered to neighbours that arrogance of having long hair was the reason for my sauciness (since I would not keep a respectful silence at her verbal barbs as was expected of a tenant). Undoubtedly there were pleasures of wearing an attraction constantly on you, but they outweighed the pain of managing such unwieldy hair. After much thought and some heart ache I had it chopped off.

          The day after required much courage to go to college and face friends and admirers. Horrified shrieks, angry remonstrations, outright abuse were heaped on me by the girls. Our limited interaction with the male classmates did not prevent reactions from coming my way. They were scandalized so much at my “cruelty” that even the more timid among them who felt daunted to speak to girls, gathered courage to express their regret. A male classmate for whom I had a weakness gave plenty of sorrow by avoiding me for a couple of days. Even as I wondered why, he conveyed through a friend that he did not want to be friends anymore since I no longer had long tresses! Romance died unwept along with the poor guy’s illusions.

          A few years later, the hair was allowed to grow in anticipation of impending nuptials. It grew back to its original length which was a great source of pride for the inlaws and partially offset their unhappiness over an unconventional marriage. Having to travel 30 kms to work, which meant catching the office transport at an unearthly hour, was not made any easy by long hair. One day, the crowning glory refused to be coaxed into a proper form. It was particularly uncooperative and after a couple of disasters at plaiting it, I collapsed on the stool in front of the mirror in frustration. And jumped up with a yell. A cooperative hubby had placed on it a plate of steaming idlis swimming in hot sambar. That accident resulted in missing the office bus that forced me into a crowded RTC bus-ride of one hour, followed by a 2 km walk in hot sun from the bus stop to office, and losing half a day’s casual leave for the trouble taken. I took a decision. It had to be done. The hair had to return to its former state of short length whose speciality is that it is undemanding of any combing or styling. The shock and the scandal, the inevitable harsh words, especially from the in-laws, had to be endured. Others’ pleasure and perhaps even envy was not my pride…it was a pain.

          Even after two decades of such encounters, one can still be surprised. The other day, I was bargaining for apples with a Muslim fruit vendor. As he quoted an abnormally high price, I unleashed fluent Deccani on him to prove that I was not to be fooled. Sure enough, he was taken aback. “You have turned out to be one of us…of my own land,” he said. I assured him that I was “101 per cent Hyderabadi.”  To seal the “apnapan” of being Urdu-speaking fellow Hyderabadi, he gave me an extra apple, a deeply moving gesture. While short hair had lent distance, language brought us close!