HAIRCUT DAY

Today was “Hair-Cut Day” (signifying I’ve managed to push my mom’s patience quite far, by growing my hair longer than she thinks makes me look like a “good boy”). Every soul on Planet Earth definitely knows, and has experienced, what “Hair-Cut Day” is. This is one of the few special days, the mention of whose name brings out a different reaction from almost every other person.

Well, my personal reaction goes like………………………………”AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!!!!!”

Yes, I strongly despise the cutting of my hair. It’s like the Third Degree (to me), the only difference being that the pain and embarrassment is in much smaller measure (embarrassment toh is non-existent only, baal kaatne mein).

Today, mother dear finally coerced me into cutting my hair. Rather, she ordered and blackmailed me into it. Yes, that’s more like it.

So I pick up the phone, dial the number, and set an appointment for 3 o’clock at the salon.

Time flies by (as it always does when you least want it to, and vice versa) and it 2:45 p.m. the salon is close by, so I walk it down (making it all the more painful).

It is now five minutes to 3:00 p.m., and I’m standing right outside the door of the salon.

I look up at the skies (suddenly turning a tinge of dark purple), say “Waheguru Satnam”, and push the frosted glass door open. As the door swings open, a mighty gust of wind blows right into my face. Suddenly the sweeper is the size of the Empire State building, his eyes red (not to mention extremely oversized), his eyebrows in W-ish shape, his long black hair (on each of his ten heads) all over the place, and there is an extremely shrill voice to be heard riding on the wind. Well, no. Not really.

I push open the door, walk right into the salon, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand I’m told by an anorexic woman with terrible hair (presumably the secretary) that there’s some waiting to be done. I can almost imagine Dharmendra say, “Tadpa tadpa ke maaroonga main!”

My insides are cringing, my heart calling to me, “Run, Forest, Run!”. But then, if I do, I’ve got another storm waiting at home. You know they should officially change the saying to “Hell hath no fury, like a MOTHER scorned.”

So I wait, and after about 15 minutes of me chuckling away to myself (the result of my imagining myself with an array of different hairstyles, all shapes, sizes, and colours), the call comes.

I lift my enormous backside, and head further into the salon, only to put it back down three chairs away.

 

The Haircut - A True Emotional Atyachar

As I seat myself there, I hear the “tchk-tchk” of the scissors that are going to raze my 4 weeks of defiance of my Mumma. Well, I manage to come through it. Through all 45 minutes of bucket-fulls of my hair being ripped (with blade), and snipped right off the top of my head.

I get up, and having given money to the barber for my torture (my mom’s supaari to him, a token of thanks for torturing me) I walk out the door violated. I walk out feeling like Julius Caesar (big, but with 23 knives in the back and front of his bosom and bowels). Thank you, barber, thank you, Mum.

PEN AND PAPER, IN THE NIGHT

The night has only just begun,

With me sitting on the window sill, night to the right, my room to the left,

I have no company,

But for the night, my pen and its paper.

The moon and the stars, seemingly smiling,

Of what cause, I wonder,

Perhaps it is the pen and paper,

Or perhaps, my posture is vulgar.

Many options lie before me, for the passing of my time,

Each more attractive,

But all that concerns me is my pen, its paper,

And the creature I keep looking for over my shoulder.

Pen is to paper, as food is to the mouth,

In this incident though,

Pen goes to the mouth,

Food is not involved, and blank remains the paper.

My aim for the night,

Was to write, and to write,

What to write about though, I wonder,

And I start to colour the paper.

All the interesting subjects,

Such as Dorian Gray, Black Beauty,

Julius Caesar, have already been taken,

By the likes of Oscar Wilde, Anna Sewell, and William Shakespeare.

Staring out, once again, into the night,

I ponder my subject,

Nothing strikes me, but for the cool wind that blows,

And I ponder again, only this time, the subject being the tearing out of my hair.

Seeing now, why the Moon and Stars ridiculed me,

I crawl to my bed,

Albeit submittingly,

That I would write something, someday, I swear.