Dunno ‘bout all y’all’s hair, (head-hair, he said
hurriedly), but, my hair behaves quite oddly in the aftermath of a haircut.
Wait, that’s not accurate. I had more than one hair cut...Hairs cut? Sounds
odd, but I’m going to go with...wait...hair cutting? Let’s try it. My hair
behaves oddly in the immediate aftermath of a hair cutting – yep, ‘cuz, y’know,
process; or, more accurately, in the aftermath of the post-tonsorial ablutions. Hairs that had meekly stayed in their
assigned places as I left the barber’s are, asserting their independence. Hairs
that had defied the rabble rousing vortices in the back seat of a homeward auto
rickshaw are, post-shower, deciding to strike out on their own; refusing
direction and distribution. Hitherto unseen cowlicks making their haphazard
presence annoyingly known; not unlike the fellow in the row in front who stands
up and has a leisurely stretch and look around while a crucial moment on the
playing field passes unseen.
Bad hair cutting, I hear you say. No, I assert. My
barber is a gentleman of skill and art. His cutting of my hair has been honed
by more than a decade’s worth of familiarity with my requirements. His work
cannot be faulted. No, the fault lies elsewhere, and, having pondered the
matter I believe I have understood the issue.
Adolescence, that’s what it is. Adolescence, that time
of discovery and exploration, that yearning for a glimpse over the horizon,
that search for identity, that’s what has the cowlicks defying my stylist
instructions. Can’t be blamed, really, Imean, it’s a phase, innit? Imean, we’ve
all been through it, haven’t we? Growing from a subcutaneous bud into the heady
freedoms of early maturity only to be held in place by the weight of older
tradition and order, we’ve all been there.
Then one day, a sharp and sudden liberation from the
weight that has been pressing down, and...cowlick.
I now no longer try to tame my cow licks. Time, and
aging will kill that spirit soon enough.
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