The bench

There are a few places that invoke a feeling of dread within me. You know that feeling you get when you are alone in a room and cold air blows on your spine. Dentist’s clinic is surely one. Beauty parlors are another. I detest going to either places and make all kinds of Herculean efforts to avoid going to either. Even if it means researching on the net for hours looking for ways to make the pearlies whiter, or splurging on all kinds of flossing, brushing stuff from all over the world. And in case of parlors, just plain denial most of the times. “I don’t really need to go through painful ripping of hair on my body just to wear a skirt! I can just NOT wear a skirt or a pair of shorts. I can go through the Indian summers wearing more clothes than someone would in a temperate winter”.

I do land up sometimes taking the boy for his monthly hair cut. Luckily, the daughter is too vain about her genetically fabulous hair and doesn’t cut it. But the boy loves having his hair cut really short, which means I land up making at least a few trips to the dreaded place.

Here, I would like to clarify, when the boy was younger and barely sprouting hair, I did take him to a men’s hair cutting salon once. It was dreadful; dreadful for me, dreadful for the boy and dreadful for all the patrons inside. They were too embarrassed seeing me barge inside. Of course, I was not going to let a scissor-wielding person near my little boy without me at an arm’s reach. Which meant, I stood there like a ninja mommy, while the patrons shifted uncomfortably in their chairs with more beauty products applied on their faces than I have ever seen in my life. Since then, I take him to the unisex place near my house and pay about five times more than the husband would.

A place I try and visit as infrequently as possible. As soon as I walk in, the lady smiles at me knowingly “Come my child, you look like you need me!” says her expression.
I smile sheepishly and thrust the child towards her.
“Only him?” She says staring at my ragged hair, tanned face and arms and bushy eyebrows.
“Yes, only him” I say firmly.
“Okay, you are the last one for today. I can squeeze in one more”. She doesn’t relent. I mumble something about “no time, too much work, exams”.

I plop myself in a chair (at an arm’s reach) and bury myself in the phone. Clearly averting all eye contact.
“Give me five mins while I blow dry her hair”, she points to someone. Miss. someone has clearly spent plenty of time there. Fabulous hair, great skin and perfectly manicured hands. I am almost in awe. She actually picks nail paints to match her outfit. Sometimes, when I am in a hurry, I don’t match my kurta and chudidar!

As the boy gets done, the owner again looks at me quizzically. “I will come back soon”, I quickly gather the boy, pay and leave, painfully realising, today was one of the days when I didn’t bother to match the kurta and the chudidar!