Come Into My Parlor...

Bodies lay strewn as far as the eye could see. Some were behind light curtains, some had been placed in a sitting position. Some of them had white faces, some were green, some the colour of earth. All of them were clad in white.  My five year old recoiled, buried her head in my thigh, and clung on to the rest of the limb for dear life.
"Mama..! " she muttered, " There are no sleeping beauties here only ghosts ! Co..Co.. Come on lets get out. " She tugged at the afore mentioned limb as hard as she could, trying to get us to leave.
I started to shush her up, trying to explain the whole concept of a parlor to her. Titters rose from all around us, the 'dead ' bodies having come to life at her words. Added to that must have been the sight of myself, trying to balance on one leg, the other flailing in the air even as the tot refused to relinquish it.

Teetering and shouting at her, the inevitable happened. I lost my balance ending up clutching at a chair to avoid falling. Unfortunately the chair had a body.. errr.. lady  in it. Lulled no doubt by the soothing hands of her masseuse, she had dropped off to sleep. The next thing she knew she had been whirled around a couple of times, make that six. The combined shrieks of the lady, myself, the kid, and the rest of the ladies who had been in serene repose up until then, had a passing police man burst in. To which the shrieks grew louder, as the half clad ladies rose as one, sheets clutched to chest.

My first instinct had been to grab the kid and flee, but struck by conscience and horror, mostly the latter, i stood rooted to the spot, the kid clutched possessively to my chest.
 After profuse apologies, and half baked stuttered explanations on my part, some normalcy was restored. The good humored among the ladies, were convulsed with laughter, the morose, indignant ones muttered darkly, glaring at my kid whose face was buried somewhere deep among an unmentionable part of my anatomy.

"Ai there, Anna ! See what madam wants," the command came from the tall lady, surrounded by minions. The owner of the parlor, she had had her work disrupted, but had been gracious enough to not chase us out forthwith. A hay stack, or rather a hair stack on the floor rocked. From behind it a young girl arose hurriedly. Apparently, she had sought refuge behind the stack when the policeman had barged in. A peremptory "Anna !" had her hurriedly say," Ya madam, what do you want done ? "

I emerged from the parlor with a brand new hairstyle, my joey, still clutching my pouch in a death grip.

"What happened, " exclaimed the hubby when he saw us. "I thought you had gone to have the baby"s hair cut.." Sinking down onto the sofa, I muttered, "It's a long story.." 

'Hairy' Tales.

"Poor thing, " The lady standing beside me whispered, "She has no mum,"
Shocked I looked first at the girl, then at the bengali lady,who had spoken to me.
"What ?!" I exclaimed, "But I just saw her mother yesterday. Whatever happened to her ?"
"Oh ."She muttered apologetically. "Nothing, Nothing. I just assumed... You see her hair is not oiled, and just a loose pony tail, so i assumed.."
My bemused glare had her scuttling away from me, still muttering about irresponsible,socialite, lazy mothers who had no time to oil their kids hair even in school.

What is it with Indian moms and oiled hair I wondered . My thoughts went back to my own childhood. Ever since i could remember, my hair had been oiled and plaited into two neat plaits. Both us sisters had waist length hair. For the first fifteen years of life, at least, that hair had always,but always, been oiled and plaited. It didn't help that our neighbours were Sardars. Leave alone the women, on Sundays when the men washed their hair, one had to look twice to make out girl from boy !
 After a head wash in the mornings, ma would sit us down and by evening, the two inevitable plaits were firmly in place. We knew no other hairstyle. We must have all looked like clones in school, Short girl, tall girl, fat girl, thin girl, fair girl or dark, Hindu or Muslim or any other ! Except for the Chinese girls, we all wore oiled plaits. As for the Chinese, they had such beautiful sleek straight hair, never a single hair was out of place, so it looked oiled. Anyway, they were Chinese were they not, Even if their five generations had lived in India !

I don't believe I have ever seen a Bengali girl without oil in her hair, and I lived in Kolkata for the first twenty years of life. Occasionally, they would, of course, go entirely bald, believing that the hair would grow back stronger. There was this girl in class, when I was in junior college, who was the top scorer. Short and nondescript, owly glasses perched on a small nose, but with the ability to work hard and long. Her hair was the only vanity she indulged herself in, Long and straight, and always, what else ? Oiled. One day, we got our mid term results. Of course, she had top scored again, but only in maths and science ! In English, someone had scored better than her. The next day, I breezed into class, of course Sushmita, the nerd, was already present. The "Hi..!" I had begun to shout out, died in mid word as I beheld her head, sedately covered with a scarf, tied neatly under the chin.

"Sushmita ! What happened, " I cried out. She looked up, benevolent smile in place, "Shaved my head, " she answered mildly, as if it was the most normal thing to do and why was I so shocked. But shocked was not the word for what I felt. Touching my plaits possessively, I was apalled.  Never, not ever, would I ever do that. To my vain teenage self it was the ultimate desecration. But it set me thinking. Why was I not making the most of my hair ? Why did I have to oil it everyday ? So when mum asked me to sit down to oil my hair the next time, I balked a little. Looking intently at her face, I stuttered, "Ma, i dont want to oil it..." Seeing the horrified look, quickly changing it to.."For one day. Please. " Ma's expression was so bemused, bordering on the comical, that before she had the time to think, I was gone. Thus far and no further. The next day, the plaits were oiled and happy again. Truth be told, so was I. My head was much cooler that way .

Cut to circa 2015 and my daughter the rebel. Up until the time she was in school, she was perpetually in two. Plaits i mean. That lasted as long as teenage hit. Then the hair started becoming shorter and shorter, until the day, we had a what-the-hell impulse where she got up from the parlor chair, her hair cut shorter than the average boy ! A fallacy that since most boys prefer to grow their hair when they rebel !

So we live. A happy daughter and a defensive mother. Since the fateful day when we left most of her hair in the parlour, she and I have become the cynosure of most eyes. The old looking accusingly at me, while the younger lot open their eyes wide and go "Oh, your mother let you do THAT ! " envy writ large on their faces.

The day might just come when i join her, more out of necessity than rebellion. The only thing holding me back is my mother. I'm sure she will tear her hair out in despair, so i would rather not split hairs and keep mine. !