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 :)
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 :)
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