Shorn, not unadorned

Sangeet Toor

The reason to cut my hair very short was utilitarian. To save time, while juggling the roles of a mother, professional and freelance writer, among other decisions, I decided to disconnect beauty and long tresses. Machine cut at number two (men know what it means) — this was the best decision of my life. The intent of my short hair is not to make a statement or press a burning political issue; it is to simply celebrate the self-effacement. I feel like an alien and am awkwardly in love with myself.

Before any other woman out there takes the scissors to hair, there are a few things that I must open up about. To the right and to the left, pretty much everyone sees a shorn woman differently. Either they see her as a trailblazer who has liberated herself by cutting off the hair, or as a non-conformist who is set out to disrespect the traditions and norms of femininity. In any case, she is seen as a rebel.

I don’t fit into the popular perception of a very short-haired woman. However, I enjoy being seen as that. When the onlooker is a man, power is exerted and that becomes apparent in his behaviour. He is face-to-face with a maverick, that too a woman; and he is not equipped to look her in the eye. He fumbles and mostly asks if I were a sportsperson or a police personnel or an army person. I say I am ordinary, like every other woman, but the absence of visible signals has already stuck him. I enjoy this distance, and fear. A woman, however, stares into my face and tries to find some similarity to decide the fate of her own hair. Women are almost always envious; or that’s what I have sensed.

What I can definitely say is that I have found absolute liberation from the popular beauty trends. I have self-stylised myself to save time and effort that goes into following trends. I am my own trend — neutral colours, red lipstick, unique earrings. Choose any part of the body to play woman. Be flamboyant. The most conspicuous sign of being a woman is gone. Play man. Shirts and trousers, no lipstick, aviators. You will look radical even if that was not the agenda.

Don’t be hasty. Before going to the barber, and finally letting your adornment go, read the rest. This haircut is not for the faint hearted. Hair takes time to grow out, and it won’t be another year before you could reverse a hasty decision. Think through. And while you are doing your bit of thinking, I can tell you how the absence of hair has accentuated my facial features — sharp nose, attenuated jawline and thin long neck. Well, the collection fits together and looks beautiful, yeah. The age-lines on the forehead add to the rugged agnosticism I have for the style-for-masses. I look into the mirror and I see a lone wild beast.

The look, which is provocative for the onlookers, also sets you apart from the masses. Every long-haired woman carries her long hair not much differently from others — parted in the middle or side, straight or curly, coloured or untouched. A very short-haired woman does not have to carry the weight, the hair carry themselves.

In case you have thought through the idea to get rid of your mane, I have barber advice for you. Go to a men’s barber. He will try to convince you to not cut all your hair. But don’t let him interfere in your journey to become the uber woman. He will try again; this time he will convince you to cut them into a bob. Bobs are terrible; a woman in bob is indecisive, except if it’s Anna Wintour. Tell the barber that you mean to be devilish, because that’s his judgement. Just confirm that he is right in judging you secretly. Once the deed is done, please own it and pay the barber fifty rupees. Come home, take a shower. Put on a white t-shirt, preferably oversized, with denims. Apply hot red lipstick. Voila! It takes three minutes to get ready. Plus you are the trendiest woman in the city.

I use the saved time to read, write, play with my children, and bask in the exclusive gaze of strangers, whatever the connotation. I am myself and unshackled, nourishing the self-love. I feel the weather on my neck and behind my ears when I waltz out looking like the most fashionable alien in the world.