Pain and Pleasure

There are days when I thank my father for sharing his X chromosome with Ma. Days like rakshabandhan, weddings, navaratri pooja, travelling in the ladies coach of the metro and marvelling at how so many men could fit into that space in the general coaches! etc.

And there are days when it absolutely sucks being a girl like during 'Those' days of the month, walking on the street and being undressed by mere eyes of scores of lechers etc.

But there is one place about which I have never been able to make my mind. It makes me feel beautiful. It gives me immense pain. It gets me compliments but it can be expensive. I am sure most girls would have guessed by now that it is our very own (drum roll) Beauty Parlours!


Well, I don't know how the rest of you feel about these places but I absolutely detest spending a good part of the coveted weekend in salons. Just the thought of hot wax and the sound of hair being uprooted makes me want to delay the torture for as long as I can. Only the undeniable want of lounging in a pair of well worn shorts on a hot summer day makes me endure the torture. I remember asking my Ma the reason behind the discrimination: Why do girls have to keep their mane long, and body hair free and eyebrows tweaked? But metro sexuality becoming a rage has satisfied the feminist in me. Now the 'un'fair sex knows that beauty comes at a cost which can't be paid in money alone.

Last weekend, after delaying it for as long as I could, I finally visited a salon. My regular parlour being shut on Sundays, I drove to the nearby market and entered the first decent looking salon. I could guess from the plastic on the chairs and the extra white towels that it is a new facility. A boy wearing a horrendous shade of blue denims, pointy black shoes, an eyebrow ring and bleached spiked hair greeted me. I rattled out the list of 'surgeries' I needed. After denying the need for too long I had decided to go an extra mile today. The boy looked startled and looked around for help as I explained the procedures I wanted performed. Seeing his distress a matronly woman, the arch of her eyebrows touching her hairline, came nodding at me. After a round of explanations, suggestions and discussions, I finally settled for a satisfactory package.

I was led to a booth with a wooden table like bench in the centre, flanked by tables and drawers full of bowls, pastes, creams, lotions, tools and other surgical looking equipment. Despite many many visits to salons, I could never get quite used to getting undressed in strange places, be it changing rooms or parlours. So I blushed when a sweet looking girl with long curly hair asked me to take off my weekend attire, Papa's old T - shirt and a dhoti, and offered me a big fluffy white towel in exchange. As she powdered my arms and heated the wax she began the preliminary questioning: Is it my first time here? Have I tried Italian wax?
As she applied the hot wax on my bare skin and I winced, she blew lightly on the wax and asked me gently several times if it was too hot. And the questions became bolder and more personal: What college do I study in? Oh! Working? But you look so young! The girl herself didn't look much older than me. As she checked the temperature of the wax, I asked if she was training here and since when has she been working. So as she deftly dealt with my arms using a spatula, hot wax and strips of special paper, we exchanged life stories.

By the time she led me to the black swivel chair to tweak my brows, we were comfortable as old friends (and she had convinced me to take my first pedicure). She talked about her parents and how she decided to become a beautician as the sharp thread plucked at my eyebrows. She let me relax quietly as she massaged, scrubbed, washed, buffed and polished my face with a large number of products, many of which I can't even pronounce. As I talked about my job, bitched about travelling, told her about my friends and family, shared my woes, she listened patiently while scrubbing away at my feet asking me a question or two to keep me going.

At the end of the 3. 5 hour session and some 6 intense treatments later, I felt pretty and so much lighter (my wallet felt pretty light too). As I stepped out of the salon wearing the same old T - shirt and dhoti, I felt more confident and happier. Thanks to that girl who worked hard on me to make me pretty and also to help me release my mental pressures. As I drove back home, I realised I didn't even know her name and I never told her mine. These directionless conversations which go beyond the formalities of exchanging names sometimes mean so much more than so many conversations we have with different people everyday.
Hundreds of girls get the pain and pleasure treatment everyday in parlours across the world. And these parlours aren't just a place for beauty treatments but also a place to exchange stories and smiles :)

Drifting Away...

 Friends are the family we choose for ourselves. College was the golden era of my life. And my definition of this era isn't limited to endless gossiping, our 'chit' chats in lectures, the night stays, Momo's point, mindless discussions on everything under the sun sitting on the metro station platforms, bitching and more bitching, and uncountable such things. Though these things make my three years from 2007 to 2010 most memorable, what makes this time of my life is how life changed after it. Sitting on the worn out blue linoleum floor of the freezing studio, lounging on the blue frayed velvet couch, feasting on subsidised snacks in the canteen, along with making opinions about some important and many not - so - important things in life, I made friends who taught me the real meaning of the term friendship.

In those three years, life revolved around these handful of people. Sharing joy and sorrow, we forged a bond which was to last a lifetime. It wasn't during the final examinations or the farewell party. It was in the spring of 2010, on the last day of college, forgetting and forgiving all trivial differences and grudges, when we hugged and cried and wished each other well in life, that it finally began to sink in. Sitting opposite the building where we had sat till late in the night discussing movie scripts, assignments, politics, fashion, boys and the like, that the realisation dawned that this is where our journey together ends and we take separate ways. The following few days I chided myself for being unnecessarily dramatic. Technology has advanced ample to keep us in touch and still avoid the hefty bills! But silly me, the remaining balance in my cell phone should have been the last of my worries.

Two years after graduating, time and distance have begun to prove my smartphone useless for staying in touch. There is an option to text, chat and email apart from calling, but it is just that we have begun to run out of things to talk about. 'Real life' has changed the idealistic opinions I once sweared by and changed are the friends with whom I debated endlessly defending my stand on multiple issues. It was never intentional, this growing apart. But somehow, catching up with friends, laughing on old silly jokes, talking about us kept going down the priority list. Some people with whom I shared my deepest secrets and worries have just become a name on my BBM friend list. Friends who used to know what's going in my head just by looking at me have gone so far that when we talk on the phone after weeks, all we get to do is exchange formalities. No one is to blame. Time is always too less and distances too much. Work keeps us busy and there are things to keep us preoccupied in the free time. I hold no grudges against the friends with whom I shared Rs. 2 per piece samosa, class notes and my life story. I hope they don't either. I am glad we met and bonded.  I wish things had been different and efforts had been made to stay in touch. But then friendships which require efforts never go a long way. People meet and move apart. This gradual drifting away becomes prominent on days like today, when I sit with newer friends and hear them reminiscence about their friends and their golden era.
All friendships aren't bonds. Most are just beautiful pictures which bring a smile to our faces when we think about the memories they gave us. Those friendships which survive the growing distances and shrinking times are like a film shoot which never ends. Keep adding newer scenes to your film story and visit the memory albums often. They might have drifted away, but the memories we have with them are ours to keep.

:)