Nerve Endings Firing Away

The lion (the one who also squeaks) had his mane trimmed yesterday not only to beat the Atlantan heat but more so because he would arise in the morning and get the fright of his life upon seeing that haggardly mess on his royal head. Yup, you guessed right, I am the quintessential lion who would hate to inflict that torture on his mane but nevertheless has to undergo the bi-monthly torture for reasons of propriety. I have had my own outrageous takes on mane-maintenance. Few years ago, I decided to let them loose and grow incessantly without fearing the insulting clippers, envisioning a Bon Jovi look. But the joke was on me because after six inches of linear downward growth, the follicles underwent a chemical transformation causing the mane to curve upwards. After enduring a month of looking at a likeliness of an upturned sunflower who had the ignominy of being split wide open by a firecracker, my mom pushed me out of the house and refused to let me in till I got my Bon Jovi-aspiring locks lopped off. I went to the other extreme and cut it so short that she refused to let me in coz she did not recognize me. Guess that taught her not to instruct me on my mane-maintenance. But the opposite sex has always complimented me on my “decent” look whenever I get my mane trimmed – or maybe it’s’ just a sigh of relief.

In India, it was Pakya’s hair saloon that did the honors often, supplemented by a background score of live cricket action on a good day or raunchy Hindi numbers on a bad day. Here it is Hair Cuttery or Great Clips, depending on who sends me their discount coupon first. I never try to mess up the still unconvincing tip-tradition least they decide to do the same to my mane. I spend freaking amount of money on a single haircut that even Pakya wouldn’t dream of earning in a month. Plus I don’t get my courtesy free “cuttin” (tea) in Great Clips. Anyways to end the torture and get my idea of a mane-trimming across, I mumble out my regular monologue “trim it a little more on the back and the sides than on the top”. Maria takes that to heart and promptly runs a mini-lawnmower in my hard-grown tresses, trying to give me an Apache-Indian look. We may hail from the same country but that doesn’t mean I want to look like him. Wait, Maria!!! But before I can say stop, she is all done asking me if it’s OK. As if I have a choice. I emerge from the saloon looking like a demure plucked chicken, trying to hide my almost-shaved head but knowing for sure, my roomies are gonna erupt in peals of laughter when I get home. No matter how much I hate it, the routine is bound to repeat in a coupla months.