For as
long as I can remember, my hair has been
an on-going science experiment, with me
in the role of Dr. Frankenstein. You name
it, I’m sure I’ve given it
a try. As a gawky kid, with no noticeable
fashion sense, I yielded to traditional
Indian methods and tried combing in coconut
oil. The thick, rich and cool oil felt
lovely on my scalp, but only made a miniature
dent in my stubborn frizzy hair. You’d
have to lug out a microscope to see anything
different. When that didn’t work
I went with my mother’s advice about
forcing the hair into a routine and began
sleeping with a tight plaight every night.
However, after two months, the only thing
that I came away with from this exploit
was a roaring headache each morning. My
hair still pinged wherever, and whenever,
it wanted too.
Moving into high school I became like
a crazy woman, desperate to solve this
trouble with my tresses. Looking good
could make or break a person’s social
standing in the life of an American teenager
and my frizzy hair was a one-way ticket
to nerd-ville. I tried to curtail this
frizz with the standard beauty product
that I had seen all the other girls using,
Aquanet hairspray.
It worked, but only after consuming half
a can and my hair looked like something
out of a modern art museum; and it was
not one of those pretty modern art pieces,
but the kind where you raise your eyebrows,
look puzzled and wonder who buys this
stuff.
After a few weeks of trying Aquanet,
I lamented to my mother about how I was
having no luck. She replied, “You
will have arranged marriage anyway, no
need to look good for these aunggrazies.”
Ahhhh... right.
That was not exactly the answer I was
looking for, so I turned to outside sources.
But, I could not glean anything from the
glossy American teen magazines, which
always showed the perfect blond-haired
and blue-eyed cover girls. There was never
anyone with frizzy hair problems in any
of these magazines, which was no big surprise.
I hardly imagine twisted, monster hair
would sell a lot of magazines.
Following high school, I rapidly tried
and dismissed everything to find the magic
elixir to my frizzy hair problems: blow
drying, mousse, Frizz-ease, light hair
spray, heavy hair spray, gel, Bed-Head,
hair serum, leave-in conditioner, and
a variety of specially formulated and
high-priced hair salon shampoos. They
all claimed to be “the supreme,
number one, doctor approved, ultimate,
super duper solution” to hair problems.
But nothing worked.
I began to wonder if I was taking the
wrong approach. Perhaps my frizzy hair
was a distinct badge of honor, something
that made me Indian and marked my uniqueness,
like a peacock amongst the pigeons. I
started to believe this unusual hair was
just something I should embrace as a cultural
icon of India. And that line of thinking
might have worked if I hadn’t gone
to see the Hindi film Taal, where Bollywood
starlet, Aishwarya Rai, danced and sang
with perfect glossy, shiny and straight
hair.
“Nope. Frizzy hair was not a cultural
thing,” I thought emerging from
the theater.
After all these endless futile attempts,
I was at my wit’s end with this
on-going frizzy hair research. I didn’t
know what else could be done, so I decided
to chuck the research and just combine
everything I knew into one heap, like
some big anti-frizz soup. I figured, maybe
throwing multiple attacks at once would
finally calm my hair, like little people
ganging up on the Giant, something had
to appease it.
With great glee, I tried out this new
approach the next day, right after taking
a shower. I started with combing through
gel in my wet/damp hair. Immediately after
that I blow dried my hair at the same
time subduing it from the hot air with
a straight comb. Once blow dried, I pulled
my hair back in a ponytail and sat still
in that position for exactly 20 minutes.
After 20 minutes, I took my hair out of
the ponytail and ironed it (with a hair
iron) to straighten it.
Topping off the whole formula I squirted
some high price gooey substance on my
hair that Suki, my hairdresser, said was,
“Heaven sent, darling. Trust me,
it will make your hair shine.”
Even though it was only less painful than
a root canal, I was excited about this
new method. The first time, the results
were positive; my hair looked good, it
was straight and gleaming!
Just admiring the hair, I felt like I
could leap tall buildings or stop world
hunger. Straight hair was quite intoxicating.
Now confident of the formula, I decided
to show this new hair style off at a family
picnic, where Amir, the guy of my dreams,
the boy I had had a crush on for two years,
would be attending. If there was ever
a time my hair needed to look good, this
was it. I secretly pinned all the success
and happiness of my future life on my
ability to make a good impression and
what says “good impression”
better than beautiful hair?
Going through the whole minutia of this
arduous procedure, I hummed an A.R. Rahman
tune under my breath.
“This had to be it,” I thought.
“The way to being a straight-haired
girl and a happy ever after.” Leaving
the house, my hair looked nice, frizz-free.
I believed I had finally conquered my
hair nemesis. A 45-minute car ride later,
as I entered the park, I was still feeling
proud of myself.
Wanting to admire the magnificence of
my improved hair, I glanced into a nearby
tinted car window, when I saw them; insurgent
little demons of wispy curls popping out
of my ponytail, menacing around my head,
waving in the wind and mocking me with
silent singsong chants of “you can’t
catch us.” AAHHH...Medusa was back!
With a sigh, I dunked my entire head under
a nearby water fountain to temporarily
smooth the hair down. I guess it’s
back to the science lab.
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