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Here’s a surrealist account by Mitali, with subtle humour, about her hair. An exclusive for Different Truths.
One day I woke up a silver blonde — like Steve Martin.
Almost half a century ago, I had wanted to turn into a blonde with blue eyes — I had never thought of this candy floss silver tuft. That time I also wanted to be a princess like in ‘Princess & the Pea’ or ‘The Frog Princess’ — only I did not want to kiss frogs to find my prince. In fact, I did not think of princes at all at that point.
The only time they dressed me up to be a doll-princess was for a play. I evidently needed curly hair as I was to represent a ‘mem’ or a Westerner. I remember now, I slept the night before on my nose with curlers in my hair and discomfort. I still recall the green brocade dress and long white gloves that were my costume. And my hair fell straight by the evening. Then, in the green room backstage, I noticed the other queens, the ministers, and the king – a polygamous one obviously as the story centred on his three queens — all had oodles of artificial jewellery. I was given none. That upset me and I refused to go on stage without some jewellery. Fair enough, in the serial, The Crown, the queen mother wears jewellery. So, why not me? Netflix did not exist then and neither did the soap! But ultimately, the director did understand my logic and got my message. No jewellery, no performance from the mem rani. Finally, they gave in. I was given some pearl strings so that I would go on stage. And then, I complied gracefully and with docility.
In my late teens, I wanted frizzy hair — my hair was as straight as pine needles.
In my late teens, I wanted frizzy hair — my hair was as straight as pine needles. I slept with hairpins on at night in an attempt to have the frizzled look, combed my hair backward — tried all kinds of things, but again in a couple of hours my hair fell straight. I was pretty much in the predicament of the sage who tried to wear his pigtail before him, as described by William Makepeace Thackeray[i].
There lived a sage in days of yore, And he a handsome pigtail wore; But wondered much and sorrowed more Because it hung behind him. He mused upon this curious case, And swore he'd change the pigtail's place, And have it hanging at his face, Not dangling there behind him. Said he, “The mystery I've found, I'll turn me round.” He turned him round; But still it hung behind him.
The poem is a long one. I only share a bit to give you the gist of my feeling, my longing for frizzy hair. Just like the sage could not move his pigtail, I could not develop a frizz!
As I touched my twenties, I wanted jet black hair — it remained a strange multicoloured shade…
As I touched my twenties, I wanted jet black hair — it remained a strange multicoloured shade despite applications of coconut and mustard oils which were supposed to blacken my recalcitrant locks. At that point, I wanted hair like a princess out of Thakumar Jhuli (Grandmother’s Satchel), a children’s fairy tale compendium in Bengali from which my grandmother often read to her grandchildren as she lay in the middle of our brood and entertained us cousins, each battling to be closest to her. I still remember the words. “Kooj boron kanna, megh boron chool” — “a pink complexioned girl, hair like dark clouds”. I tried whatever I could, but my hairdo would not match that of the beautiful Indian princesses too. I was denied access to cloudy or wavy or frizzy hair jet black in colour by the exigencies of fate and time in history. Colouring at that point was not perceived as an option by me or my family. Those were the days of yore (though post the ancient sage’s days – more accurately, about three and a three-quarter decades ago), long before hair dye had invaded youthful scalps with its compulsive rainbow hues to help them express their individuality. At that time, individuality was not equated to hair colour, piercing, tattooing, torn jeans or any other such labelling factors. My uncle said my thatch was the colour of an undernourished child’s hair. And perhaps, he was not wrong — for at that time, I hated food much as I love it now.
I had even wanted to wear my hair long at a point like Rapunzel. I was always fascinated by her story. Imagine, what would have been the weight of the prince or the witch on her scalp as they climbed up her lovely locks — which might have had superhuman strong roots to support their masses. In my case, when I had sons and I tried to sleep between a few months old baby and a seven-year-old, they pulled my hair and tore it to shreds. So much so that I thought a bob became my best.
Now, that I was colouring my hair as I was turning prematurely grey, I wanted my natural hair colour!
Somewhere down the line, I landed in China. One of my teenage dreams was to walk the Great Wall, and I walked on it four times. I also fulfilled my other dream of writing a book on China — ticked that off too. And somewhere in between, the hairdresser coloured my hair black — that looked odd now. Now, that I was colouring my hair as I was turning prematurely grey, I wanted my natural hair colour!
The whole thing of desire and Tagore’s song was so true — ‘Tora je ja bolish bhai, amar shonar horin chai’ — “Regardless of what you say, I want the golden deer” — sang Sita. The whole kidnapping episode with Ravana started with that. She wanted this golden deer for a pet while they were on a fourteen-year exile. Her menfolk went to find the deer, who was none other than a magician uncle of Ravana. Meanwhile, Ravana came and kidnapped Sita. So, this was Tagore’s depiction of Sita’s demand. Like Sita desired the deer, I wanted frizzy black hair. Unfortunately, hairdressers have all refused to frizz my hair to date.
And I changed about the jewellery bit too — I think performing on stage took its toll. I had to dance, and always lost bits of my jewellery.
And I changed about the jewellery bit too — I think performing on stage took its toll. I had to dance, and always lost bits of my jewellery. I was reprimanded each time. Then, I started hating makeup. Have you ever had your face caked, eyebrows redrawn with kohl on top of a layer of zinc oxide and mouth reshaped? That is how they treated me to look ‘traditional’. So, now, I abscond when I see jewellery and face paint of a decorative sort. Add that to the fact that I decided to stop colouring my hair as I like being a silver blonde. My hairdresser says it is the most fashionable ‘ombre’ now. The latest style, ombre, is having contrasting hair — a bit like a skunk and wearing it grey, he told me. He did not say the skunk bit of course, but that is what it made me think of!
Well, at last I am fashionable and satisfied with my hair colour — though I do want the complete Steve Martin-look still. Ultimately, all silver!
Hey, I am sixteen at heart, hopeful and imaginative. Still the non-frog, non-black, non-frizzy/ wavy-haired silver-blonde princess.
The funniest thing is that now I suddenly find people addressing me as an elderly lady! Hey, I am sixteen at heart, hopeful and imaginative. Still the non-frog, non-black, non-frizzy/ wavy-haired silver blonde princess. Being over fifty, means life is just starting. I should pretty much get to do all that I could not do under fifty — which might mean starting an online journal, or conquering the world like Genghis Khan with my pen… Did I tell you I always had a soft spot for Mongol women?
But that will be another story yet.
[i] https://internetpoem.com/william-makepeace-thackeray/a-tragic-story-poem/
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