A Half Bad Haircut

Everyone's had bad haircuts. It's just a right of passage kind of thing. And it's hair. It grows back. But that doesn't stop the panic.

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I've been feeling a bit anxious lately. I wake up in the middle of the night and dream up nightmares, and then as I frantically try to silence them in order to go back to sleep, my body clenches up and the anxiety boils to madness in my gut. The smallest things set me off. I'll stare a little too long at the dust that's collected on the black bookshelf in my room. The maid was supposed to wipe that bookshelf down every single day. She gets paid to do that. But she didn't. But that really shouldn't be infuriating. If it really bothers me that much, it wouldn't kill me to go wipe it down myself. Or my swollen knees which don't function right. Or my wrists that hurt because I can't play bar chords well. Or my back aching from sitting hunched over all day. Or literally just n o t h i n g.

I know. I'm doing a poor job of explaining.

Maybe it's just the stress from this whole pandemic thing. The self-induced panic tends to follow a cycle. Most days I go about my business and keep my mind occupied enough to not worry, but every once in a while, Minerva will release a new update about the global rotation situation. And of course in classic Indian parent style, the tiny little memo needs to be widely shared and analyzed and dissected by the experts in order to boil it down to the objectively right decision that should be taken in response to the update. And honestly. It's not that big of a deal and it's not something that I can really change. So I shouldn't worry about it right? These things just run their course. Everyone talks about it for a day or two, the "yes this is the right decision" is passed around till the right opinion spreads like a virus, and then the infected finally stop to rest as they wait for the next wave of information to act on.

Obviously I'm dramatizing it a little bit, but I'm not gunna lie. It does bother me.

I'm 20. I'm squarely in the age where I am half dependent and half independent. And while that is the prime age to be brazen and make mistakes and do stupid stuff simply because you can without too many consequences, it's also the prime age to get lost in the grey.

I am independent enough to choose when and what I can eat, but I don't pay for my own food. I am dependent on my mother for my college education, but independent enough to choose my own career path? I am trusted enough to live on my own in foreign countries during my studies, but not trusted enough with the choice of whether I will be safe there or not? I'm 20 and legally an adult and, quite frankly, not stupid, but I still find myself asking for permission to make my own choices. And if you ask permission first, are they really your choices? If there are no stakes in the matter, because I still have the safety net of dependence, then why do I still let myself feel the rush of victory when I make a decision?

This whole Corona thing is complicated and messy and everything is up in the air right now. So I get it. Everyone's stressed. And my mom's a generally stressed person to begin with, so what was I really expecting? I guess what rubs me the wrong way is when that grey area is taken for granted. When it's weaponized.

"You are not independent. You don't pay your own bills or sign your own contracts, and thus, cannot make this decision. You are not trusted with this decision."

Because you're 20. And brazen. And at the age when you'll do stupid stuff. And we can't afford stupid right now.

But I could argue the exact opposite too.

"You should not be dependent, Amulya. You don't pay your bills right now, but now is the time to learn and figure it out. No time like the present. You're gunna have to start making your own choices. You're already 20."

And that's what's confusing. There's two right answers trying to fit into one spot. And the friction is causing me anxiety.

I know it'll take time, and I appreciate my mom for trying to be understanding and accommodating to my opinions, but like I said, I'm just a little lost in the grey right now.

I need a change of pace.

So I decided to get a haircut. And I've wanted to dye my hair silver for a while now, so why not do it now. If it turns out hideous... well it's a good thing the world's in quarantine.

The appointment was at 11, so I got up early (don't judge, time doesn't exist when the world's on pause) and made sure that my hair was adequately combed. I put my wallet and a couple books to read in a bag, and tugged my mandated mask on. I wasn't nervous, per say, but I did wake up in the middle of the night and panic a little over the possibility of having a sub-par hairdresser. I didn't want to end up looking like a baby-faced grandma with early 2000s highlights. The anxiousness bubbled up a little, but I told myself it was just excitement, and I walked with a little skip in my step. Nice. Excited to finally get that edgy dyed hair look. Nice.

When I got to the salon, to both my relief and disappointed, I was informed that the silver hair dye was inauspiciously unavailable. Ok. Okaaay! This is fine. No cool hair for Amulya today, folks. But it's okay. She will live to see another day. And I was already at the salon, so I thought, well, I'll just get the haircut without the dye job then, since I came this far anyway. And my chaperone, nor the three sisters of fate were there to stop the mortifying snipping that ensued.

You know when you start doing something, thinking it's a good idea, and then halfway through you kick yourself going yeah no this was d e f i n i t e l y not a good idea, but you're already halfway through and you can't turn back now, because honestly how can you get half a haircut so you just hit the big red button and say screw it and painstakingly sit through the demolition of your perfectly imagined haircut. And it's fine. It's just a haircut. There was really no need for all of that bottled up anxiety during the process, but I swear every time a long black clump fell into my lap, I cursed the fates and their stupid scissors for taking the choice out of my life.

And that brings us to now. It's almost 7 pm, I spent most of the day reading philosophy papers and giggling at Plato jokes, and it's raining and thundering outside as if Zeus himself is just... letting it go.

And I can't help but think: It's not the best haircut, but at least you did it.

Maybe what made me anxious was partly my inexperience with getting haircuts in general, or my ignorance in the field of Indian hairdressers, and maybe it was also the generally tense aura of Covid season, but one thing is for sure: I was nervous about what my mom will think about it.

Not because it's so horrendous that my mother would disown me for offending her sight, but because I didn't tell her that I was getting a haircut.

Now hold on a minute. I know what you're thinking. Why is she anxious about telling her mom about... a haircut? She didn't even get it dyed or anything...just...a haircut? Okay, drama queen.

And you're absolutely right. It's hair. It grows back. Like all grey things in your 20s, there are mild consequences, which fade with patience, but the point is that you learned your lesson and will be wary of your next cheap haircut. It's not the end of the world. It's. Hair.

And while I agree, and putting aside the blasphemy of simply cutting one's hair in the Indian pedagogy for a second, I also am shocked at the visceral anxiety that resulted from making such an insignificant decision. I just... did something without telling my mother? Without asking for permission? Deliberately not asking for permission? And I know that when I tell my mom she'll be like why didn't you tell me, lol, kk whatever, how's the weather and it won't really be much of a conversation, but even then. The simply euphoric fear of making a decision and independently suffering its consequences is just nice, my dudes. It was like I scandalously dipped my big toe into the opaque ocean of adulthood to test the waters, just to find out that they were not as shark-infested as I had imagined.

To be fair, a haircut is no shark of adulthood, but if I can't even make that decision without anxiety then maybe I have bigger fish to think about.

Honestly, I look like I have a lion's mane or an unironic mullet. The lady, granted there was a language barrier, cut off much more than I had instructed and expected. The resulting look is definitely not my aesthetic and I can't even make it look edgy because what person in their right mind wants to die their hair grey in India when everyone is trying to get rid of all their visible grey hairs by dying them black? Of course they don't have silver dye, Amulya. Think for a second. And of course it was not going to be an insta-worthy haircut, it cost like $10 and was conducted in two incompatible languages. Say it with me. Think.

But I'm okay with it. The strands will grow out and I'll chop off the mistakes in a couple months, putting aside the locks-of-lessons for safe keeping. Maybe I'll find a salon that has silver dye and go grey a little before my time. I always heard that George Washington's era wore grey wigs to seem more wise and handsome. Hopefully that still holds. Maybe I can dye my hair grey and embrace that in-between, 20 year old madness for a change. Maybe the haircut was a mistake, but at least it was a change.