Snip, snip, snip!

The Greeks have been advised to give their debt a haircut. It’s all over the news! When talks began about austerity measures, trimming the debt and cutting back, it was inevitable, given the flexibility and adaptability of the English language, that ‘one word covers all’ would be used – so, haircut it is.

My own overgrown tresses occasioned some sharp reminders that mop-head suited me better than matronly and ‘When are you getting that haircut?’ became a frequent interjection in conversations. When the news, too, was peppered with the ‘H’ word, I took it to heart and decided it was now or never. With both trepidation and misgiving, I did a quick tic-tac-toe and opted for a local salon, a stone’s throw from my home.

There is a history behind my hair cuts and a reason for the reluctance. My earliest memories are of a pudding bowl. The ayah would place a large pudding bowl over my head – large enough to just cover the ears – and then trim around the edge, cutting off any hair that was visible. The final touch would be the fringe which was trimmed to just above the eyebrows. Simple, effective and neat if somewhat unimaginative.

An army lifestyle usually meant far flung outposts and no hairdressing salons worth the mention. We were serviced by the travelling barber who knew the date and the time without benefit of cell-phone, I-pod or electronic reminder. On the appointed day and time, he would turn up on our doorstep, kit in hand, and we would take our turns in the ‘chair’. Father first, I next and Mother last. Those were the days of the ‘bob’ and he managed to make us look quite presentable! Occasional visits to Bombay included a trip to Madame Jacques at the Hotel Taj Mahal. Coiffeuse to the elite, she always greeted all customers with a smile and exquisite courtesy. My turn in the chair required ‘just a trim’ (trims were cheaper than a full hair cut), but Madame J was a true professional and she would put in that little bit extra with scissors and comb to give me the perfect ‘look’.

When her eponymous salon closed down, we shifted loyalties to Rocco. He was a short, dapper, voluble, jovial Italian who flirted outrageously with his clients, age notwithstanding, and a visit to his salon was a treat. Here, too, was perfection. You could shut your eyes, enjoy the teasing banter and walk out with your crowning glory exactly that. He eventually shut shop and returned to his native Italy.

Marriage took me away from the locality and I made friends, in turn, with Sarah, Lolly and Eula who worked from home and kept my tresses in trim. Then, we returned to Colaba. The years in-between had seen many changes. Now, there was a plethora of boutique salons with intimidating protocol and even more intimidating prices. I opted for the easy way out. Hubby and I would visit his barber, in tandem, and sit beside each other for a ‘his and hers’. Safely escorted, it was always a happy experience.

This time, I needed to pluck up courage and venture out on my own. So, a ladies' salon it had to be. The girl assigned to me looked at my rueful expression and asked the reason. I told her that a ‘first time’ hair cut and a visit to the dentist were on par. She smiled, judged the height from the top of my head and pumped the chair so that it rose some four inches – more memories of the dentist! Well, I am happy to say that I have survived the experience; my head and my purse are considerably lighter and it will, hopefully, be at least six months before I have to work up my courage again.

There are many things that are better for being short and sweet and that goes for my hairstyle too!