Naked.
That’s how
I feel without my hair. No, it’s not all gone, but most of it is. I now have
what people In India call a “boy cut”, people in the west “a pixie”, and what
some right-wing individuals in the subcontinent refer to as “JNU-Feminist-Lesbian”
type haircut. No, I am not making this up.
In an age
where freedom of choice is so ubiquitous (for the most part), its surprising
that chopping off one’s hair – only for females though – is synonymous with a
statement – either a feminist, lesbian, or a power statement.
I have been
so used to hiding behind my full hair, using it to hide a spot or a blemish, or
just myself, tucking myself under it, for comfort, when the world gets rough or
too much to handle. Not having this cover, this curtain of sorts, takes getting
used to.
My fat
cheeks have nowhere to go but face the world head on, my freckled nose, or my
unkempt eyebrows, have no recourse. They
have to be there, all the time. Then
there’s my ears, which have lost their sheath of sorts, and stand at guard now,
without the layer of hair.
I can’t
hide my face when it confronts me in the mirror anymore. This is the reality,
high time I lost the facade.
