Here, Cut

Monday, December 25, 2017

"Now that you've had a trim, I can't wait for your life to change."

I had hoped my mother would stumble upon Tom Hiddleston who would take her first born as his lawfully, soon-to-be bedded wife. That's quite a life changing deal in exchange of a hair cut, alright. However, her life did change. Six hours after the wretched hair cut, she landed up in the ER.

I, in my bed, stared at the ceiling all night long. In my head, one question. "Is this the life changing moment I was awaiting?"

Everyone has a bag of ridiculous supestitions. There's a varying degree to pick from, from people who wouldn't cross the road after a black cat walks over, to people who consider, hair cuts are life changing. There's a measure for superstitions. Mine, ofcourse, is all in my head. Garbage pile.

Thus, everything connects to hair on the head. The pile of garbage to life changing luck.

I was 13 years old when I had a life changing haircut. Wanting to be one of the cool kids, I decided against the advice of my mother and late grandmother and opted for what's strangely named, "Razor Cut".

That was everything except the fucking haircut I wanted. It's also another reason I don't trust barbers one bit.

The next haircut that I visibly remember is at 21. I was struggling to get admitted into a post graduate course here, in India. Despite having made it in the UK, I didn't want to take a loan and spend the better part of my 20s paying that.

I had hit the point of frustrating dead end, after having appeared in eight odd entrances and had cleared one, which I had no intention of going through with. Raging poverty with a Masters in Philosophy was not an alternative to paying the loan.

Back in the day, I had obnoxious Orangutan red hair colour that was left with a residue of ugly golden tail. Sitting with utter frustration, one morning before heading out of the house, I handed my mother a pair of scissors and asked her to chop it off.

Four hours later, the college I was not nearly eyeing but had my last shot at gave my mother a call. "Please deposit the fee. She's made it past the wait list."

By the time this could sink in, I got another news. I had topped my college in the final year examinations. Undergraduate in Philosophy, shining with the best of grades.

Man, I remember being thrilled. Followed by passing out in the washroom. A story for another day.

The next hair cut happened at 24. I was struggling with the Grad School. To be precise, struggling to exit. The tails needed to come undone and breathe life into my hair, a tactic I believed could ressurect my life.

Four inches short, I felt light in the head, not to forget how much of a change it added to my face. In under a month of that almost too dramatic a change for me, I was seeing someone and had snagged a job in publishing. I was elated.

Naturally, last week when I went for the coveted tail cutting, I knew life would bypass a certain change. An entry of sorts and exit for another. A job change? Two sizes for clothes? I don't know.

However, what I didn't anticipate at all was sleeping on the bench in the hospital within 24 hours of that wretched hair trim.

I joked to my mother on the second day, "See, I told you life would change."

Her expression translated to "Fuck you."

Sixth day in, she was home. I was convinced that's all for a change and surprise this time. And by my standard, I had done okay at all the change. I had flipped out only twice in those five days and managed to keep a nearly straight face at most people, situations and things at work- something I was doing for the first time since a family member landed at the hospital.

This was ofcourse until I got a Whatsapp text from my academic advisor.

" have to defend your proposal by the end of this winter semester. That is around May. Please let us start work on it if you are interested in your PhD."

Fuck. My. Life.

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