The colours of 50

The silver streaks on my head can’t wait to reveal their ‘once upon a time’ colourful story.

As a 10 year old, I was dispatched by my mother to the Nai(Barber) along with my father and two brothers. I guess my mother saved the trouble of tying a plaid in the morning with three lunch boxes to be prepared before the school bus at 6.30am.

I always wondered why there was no female Nai. On every visit, the bearded old Nai uncle would give me his famous- ‘Boy’s Cut’. I always wondered if there was another nai shop which gave a ‘Girl’s Cut’. Nevertheless, it was always a trip to remember. Ah… the joy of being wrapped in a somewhat white bedsheet with what seemed like my father’s shaving cream smell, followed by a cooling water spray on the head and the snip, snip of an iron scissor, heads bent down and then the unfolding of that million dollar look in the big mirror. I wish we had some photos clicked after the four of us would exit the Nai shop. Four individuals -different heights, different faces, different clothes but all sporting exactly the same cut. It made us look like a family irrespective of gender with the same genetic hair cuts. We, including I, walked out, feeling like movie stars even though there was no blow dry.

Move forward-new Circa-High school. My father is transferred to a new city or perhaps an aspiring city and voila-there are no ‘decent’ Nai shops. So that was the end of the nai era for me. My new best friend in school has long hair and I itch like any peer influenced teenager to flaunt mine too. Genetics or all the oils pulled from the ends of the earth or perhaps the million boy’s cuts made my hair grow like a forest. Lo and behold, by the time I was about to enter college, I was aware that my hair was the talk of many and envy of more. Oils , eggs, lime, curd, henna, the holy trio of amla,shikakai,reetha - the whole line up from the kitchen shelves stood in attendance though I was grudgingly warming up to the new kid on the block-shampoos. With thick lush black hair dancing way past the waist, it was no wonder that the ‘crowning glory’ crown sat on my head in the event of the year-the college social.

The coup d'etat ,however, for me was getting a fringe. A fringe from the best ‘Chinese parlour’ in the town. Early 90s was still not about ‘salons’. Chinese parlours which were actually run by the Chinese were as good as it got. It was not about stylists and definitely no bold haircuts please. Hence, the fringe was indeed a bold declaration of my tresses and a coming of age announcement of a 20 something girl. I can never forget the great dissenting look on my mother’s face when she saw her daughter with a victorious glee and that fringe. My hair had rebelled. This definitely didn't tick a box in the qualifier for the suitable girl in the marriage market.

I am not sure if my crop on the head had anything to do with my cerebral success in the coveted professional world. However, with just a handful of girls in the batch, the girl with the long black plaid garnered a lot of attention, when all that was left to be won after a secured job was a suitable spouse.

Fast forward--new circa-marriage and job. And must I add motherhood. It’s too many hats to don and my hair is now just one of the hats. It became quite a herculean task to attend to the crown with all its trappings. All I wanted to don was the hat of convenience where I could just whiz in and out of the roles. I chose the aptly named salon called ‘scissors over head’. My tresses were the last thing on my head especially when I was advised bed rest just before the birth of my first child. The length dropped from waist to mid back- not that short. The cut tresses lying on the salon floor made a small cut in the heart too. The birth of my second child marked a further milestone in the trimming of my tresses from mid back to now shoulder length. Even then they were lush and fulsome. I had also stumbled on a new stylist in town who let her creative ideas flow on my hair. From bangs and bobs to blunt, I had covered the whole range. I always consoled myself that I had more to play around with, in this length compared to the demure plaid or gracious bun in my young avatar.

Till now, black it was. Always. Till a grey was spotted in my late 40s. Denial and distress followed. I can reverse it. Vitamin pills, hair gummies, oil massage, back to nature cures were resorted to with a frenzy. A friend’s suggestion for using a concoction of henna and indigo and coffee worked and that was a relief even though it was just a temporary cover up. That lent a bluish blackish shine which made it look differently coloured. As the greys grew in strength,desperate measures followed. The tedious henna route made way for ammonia free chemical hair colors- brown, mocha,mahogany, burgundy.Tubes after tubes emptied on my hair. Paraben free, sulphate free shampoos were made mandatory and new brand recommendations flew incessantly from stylists, family and friends. Then, started the bondage of root touch ups every fortnight and a global every now and then. And not to mention the heavy salon payments.

The final circa- the hair nirvana- 50 lets you in. It casts a kindly light on the first 50 of life. It releases you from yourself. No tussles of the past. A new hair code -it gently lets you embrace your hair. It lets one accept with grace the greys.You begin to see yourself. It's a journey which brings one to the 50s. You have to traverse the path and then let serendipity take over you in the 50s.

So, here I am in my gracious 50s -back to boy’s cut and the grey or white or silver or whatever one may want to call it and still some black or let’s just say back to my natural colours.