by Meera Kumar
In an act of defiance, I walked into a beauty parlor in Northern Nigeria and told them to chop off my knee length hair and shape it so that the long tresses would remain no more than 2 inches in length. When I came out of the salon, even the driver waiting to take me home took a double take as he wondered if he was driving the right person away. As I tell this story, I need to explain why this simple, everyday transaction between the hair stylist and myself took on the dimensions of defiance.
I grew up in India where the concept of beauty, a pre-requisite for finding a good match in the marriage market, required that hair be kept as long as it would grow; in addition a center part was mandatory because on the wedding day, the groom would fill it with the red vermilion that would signify my married status, a privilege denied only to those who became widowed. I’d always wanted the “modern” look, that I saw frequently in the magazines that came to us in the 60s. My pleas with my mother, that I would like to keep short hair, were always met with disapproval and rejection because, as she explained, as short hair just wouldn’t look good on my wedding day, when I was expected to wear the obligatory red sari and cover my head with the gold embellished pallu. The real fear lurking in my mother’s heart, and one she expressed sometimes, was that the future in-laws may reject a girl with short hair as she would be perceived as independent, a tad unconventional, perhaps too “fast”. The word “fast” encompassed all the traits that mothers-in-law in search of compliant, conventional daughters-in-law would reject outright.
I had experienced similar disapproval from my grandparents when a family photograph was sent to them, a photo in which I was wearing a sleeveless tunic. When I look at that photo I see myself in all the demure innocence of my 13 years. But my grandparents took strong exception to the revelation of my arms and telephoned to admonish my parents about such an unseemly display of the flesh. It is not hard to imagine how outraged they must have been because long distance calls – called trunk calls in India at that time – were expensive and reserved for special occasions or emergencies. Clearly the sight of their 13 year old granddaughter with bare arms was a grave risk to the family’s sense of honor. What would the relatives think? More importantly, where could this display of independence lead and how would it fit into the expectations of the future in-laws? Sadly for me, my parents, either out of filial duty or silent acquiescence, forbade me from ever wearing that tunic again unless I covered my arms with a sweater. I still remember the design of the tunic – white cotton with a spray of blue flowers, perfect for a summer day.
Realizing that there was no convincing my parents of the absurdity of their position, I found a way out. I wore that tunic repeatedly, incessantly, but even on a hot day with a sweater on top. And the moment I was out of the grown ups’ prowling eyes, off came the sweater revealing my rather well rounded arms gleaming in the glow of independence.
My friends were going through a similar dilemma – how to keep parents happy and let them cherish their dreams for our future while expressing a personal predilection for a different path in life. One friend, repeatedly denied this exercise of individual choice by her parents, had the courage to chop off one of her two braids leaving her parents with no alternative but to accept both her individuality and her short hair. But I didn’t have that courage until I found myself bored on a sultry warm afternoon in Nigeria where I had gone to live with my husband. I figured I was now married and the red vermilion ritual over so, well, I would do something daring.
I was met with some disapproving looks on my next visit to India. My mother seemed shocked when she came to pick me up at the airport but I was now married and someone else’s charge. I imagine her feeling was – let them deal with it. My in-laws made some noises about the beauty of long hair but knew better than to say more to a daughter-in-law who had navigated her way through several years in New York and was now on assignment in Nigeria. The hair remains short to this day although I wonder about those long tresses sometimes and think of the dust heap to which they must have been consigned.
As I have aged and the hair has thinned I regret the cavalier attitude I took to those long thick tresses that once adorned my head – is there some way to get them back from Northern Nigeria and replant them on my head – yes, I know I could use a fuller head of hair today.
Meera has lived and worked in close to a dozen countries; she loves to share her cross cultural experiences.