Hair is something I am very passionate about. Years ago, there was a time when I was not allowed to get a haircut. Now, whenever I go for a “mane-tame,” I am always so-so-so excited! I feel as if I am going to be reborn, rejuvenated, revived. Even the word “hair salon” strikes an excited chord in my heart.

I can’t remember how many times I have visited a beauty parlour, as it is called in my country. Yesterday was not soon enough! My obsession with my hair and future haircuts has always occupied my mind.

I got up early in the morning, brushed my teeth, babied myself with a hot soak to relax, and washed my long, thick hair. After toweling dry, I put on a pair of jeans and a red top, ate some breakfast, watched TV for a while, and checked my wallet to make sure there was enough money in it to pay the salon owner. Yes, I had enough and it was nearly time, so I hopped on my bike and took off. The salon is not very far from my house, perhaps only fifteen minutes away.


Just entering the salon made my heart beat fast. Posters of beautiful women, each with a different hairstyle, hung on the walls. I looked into the large mirror that faced the first station and saw that my braid went down to my butt.


I have gotten trims many times, but had never taken the bold step to ask for a very short bob that would demand a nape-shave.

The odours of perm solution and hair coloring overwhelmed me at first and made me slightly dizzy. There was a middle-aged lady sitting on a chair at one of the stations, getting her eyebrows plucked. I smiled hearing the busy snip-snip-snip of scissors and buzz of the shaver. Suddenly, I got cold feet. Do I really want such a drastic haircut? Will this visit to the hair salon change who I am and how people look at me? Peroxide smells mingled with the receptionist's cigarette smoke to snap me out of my reverie.

“Who are you here to see?” The receptionist ground out her cigarette in the ashtray, eyes scanning the appointment book. Her beautiful sandy blond hair was cut like that of a choirboy who does not even need to own a comb.

“I'm here to see Rambha for a hairstyle ... um-m, a haircut,” I tell her. It is no big deal, I try to convince myself. Everyone gets haircuts. Relax. It will always grow back.

“Rambha, your three o'clock is here!”


Cotton-candy-colored vanity lights line her station’s mirror. Scissors, shaver, wax, waxing equipment, hair-removal equipment, shaving creams, after-shaves, spritzers, mousse, hair relaxing formulas, and alcohol-free finishing-hold sprays all lined the countertop or were visible on shelves below, confirming that the care and removal of women’s body hair is a commitment she did not take lightly. I stepped over shingled hairlets, shavings, wax-pluck remainders, dropped combs, and hair clippings that form a carpet around the base of the chair and plopped down. Rambha lifted my thick braid of hair high over my head, draped an enormous plastic cape around me to cover my clothing, then let my braid drop.


“You want a short, bouncy bob, right?” she asked.

“I guess so,” I whispered.

This is where the “fun” really began. Her hands moved quickly and were careless (not at all like Mama’s who used to do my trims). I saw in the mirror that she was wearing a mischievous smile as she quickly unbraided my hair and separated the plaits. I decided to lower my eyes and not watch.


Before long, I heard snips and felt tugs. Clumps of chopped hair made little tapping noises as they hit the plastic cape covering my arms and chest and lap. I shook the hair onto the floor. Cascades of it fell down my back and onto the floor behind my chair. She was busy snipping for over 15 minutes. My head felt lighter, but I did not dare to even take a peek. Finally, she danced around my chair as she brushed and teased and combed and fluffed and nape-shaved and shot blasts of hair spray here and there.

“Done! Pay the receptionist,” she finally declared.

“Thanks,” I whispered as I slipped a generous tip into her hand, but still didn’t look in the mirror. I slid out of the chair, grabbed my purse, and hurried to the front of the shop.

After making the payment, I pedaled back home at breakneck speed, fearfully eager to check out my new look in the privacy of my bathroom mirror. “Relax,” I kept repeating to myself. “It will always grow back.”