Style is a
complicated concept. It is very difficult to understand style in a way we can
all appreciate. When someone has style, it is impossible to specify the element
of the person that we say best underlines his style. You and me with the same
outfit would probably evoke different reactions of style. In fact, with you and
me in the same outfit, 20 years ago – for sure the world would have thought of
us as siblings. It was not uncommon while we grew up, for a family to buy one
long piece of cloth and cut it up in different sizes to clothe the siblings. I think
it was in style then. More importantly it was all that could be afforded then I
guess. Forget the cost, which parent would worry about individuality when shortages
of socialism loomed large.
We came back
from the land of plenty (Dubai) to a country sold short on self-reliance. One
of the things we got back from Dubai was a lot of cloth pieces. Ironically, they
were made in India. India took its best products and simply exported them. This
was true for clothing as was for fruits or vegetables. You want to eat /wear quality
Indian produce – you go to where the Indian diaspora lived and paid in forex. It
was quite often, which can be borne out by the pictures of old, that my brother
and I were displayed to be cut from the same cloth. Occasionally my sister also
joined in. Same t-shirts, shorts, or themes running through. When you like a t
shirt design, you buy three and then – you make them all wear it together for a
party -The Doshis, or whoever you were, had arrived.
When you
were too young to understand or naive enough to believe in your parents’
judgement of what good look on you, you ended up being proud. Yay – we were The
Doshis. I dunno why it but was a proud thing. Possibly because it signaled that
we have enough money to get all three kids of ours new clothes. All three
together with new clothes would be rarer than what you would think. Most got
new clothes on Diwali, which wouldn’t be so uber cool as relatively speaking you
weren’t one up on anything. The other day to get new clothes – birthdays! That would
be one hell of a task on the parents end to coordinate. Especially when most
kids are hatched rather unexpected in those days!
My brother
was especially big in style. He liked to be the style guy around town and as
soon as he got some sense and some rebellious streak in him, he broke ranks. He
refused to wear color coordinated – anything. He wanted to be unique, himself.
I was too docile or dumb or one would say above it all to care. I got that only
in college when I had a girlfriend I wanted to impress. That she did not care a
thing about I wore was a secondary fact in the story. She has probably once or
twice in her life ever told me that I look good. Maybe she was being honest,
but…
My brother
and my sister both wanted to exhibit style. They looked west when the world
looked in. after all Dubai returned kids were not to be trifled with. We knew English
better than most, we had imported clothes that had been bought in TR, so that
the stock lasted. Wait – what’s a TR? Transfer of residence you see. When you
move in lock stock and barrel as an NRI you could get your house back home in the
transfer of Residence scheme and if you could prove that you were getting things
that you actually used – you could get them into the closed economy with
relatively less duty and hassle. Relatively is important here. You still had to
prove!
Style. Its so
funny. It is meant to be individualistic but if you are the only one with it,
its not in style. Style is cool as it smacks of individuality and group
belonging at the same time. As long as the group is aspirational or edgy. I wouldn’t
call gangsta aspirational but its edgy and it can then dictate style. It’s a funny
feeling that gives the wearer a confidence like no other. Swag cam much later.
We didn’t have Swag, we had style and that was used to define almost anything
that smacked of attitude. Style. I am saying in a way that puts the emphasis on
the y for a prolonged period. Ya. You got that StYYle. The ‘le’ is almost
silent there.
Style was also
dictated by the movies. Isn’t it always? Larger than life heroes, waltzing on the
screen, dancing away, pulping villains and talking with a Styyle that’s hard to
beat. Here is a clip I showed Jispa recently. That’s a dialogue that’s memorable
because of the style. It has no substance and in any other context or manner or
hero, it would have just sunk. Even today I repeat it with lesser ‘swag’ and it
still brings about the same feeling. Here see this –
Didn’t I tell
you. It’s a shitty line but its got much style that it became so memorable.
That is the
thing with it. Bollywood had such an effect on us that it was hard to miss. I
grew up in the age of the three khans – here look at them. Tell me what was
common amongst them, that I so bloody couldn’t copy. It was just not possible. Come
on take a guess…
No, that’s not
it. The thing I could get was their hair. Nice soft, bountiful, manageable,
silky floppy hair. What did I have – thick mop of wavy hair that I had no clue
what to do with? No matter what shampoo I tried. Some promised to make it
smooth and silky, some gave it style and some did… whatever. But mine remained
a big messy glop. My mom used to call me a golliwog. You know what that is? It
is often accused of being a racist reference in the beautiful children books of
Enid Blyton. You know you hit rock bottom when you were darker than your brother
and your mom calls you a racist slur! Done. End of story.
I tried my
best. I tried conditioning, I tried going to different barbers as I could. I even
went to eth expensive ones that stars go to at Bandra. I went to the Oberoi. I went
everywhere. But once a goll.. ok. No self pity on this trip.
So I did
what all cool kids with un manageable hair do -no, its not ‘put oil’ on it. That
don’t work. That’s not style. Oil was …oil. A symbol of the Nehruvian era that
we wanted to unshackle, way before Manmohan came along. At best we would allow our
self oil only to wash it soon enough as oiled hair when washed turn out smooth.
Well most others did. Mine were, by golly, that’s it.. By golly.
So, I decided
or so I think now, that hair was just not so cool. Less of it was the best for
all. So always the standard line to the barber would be, cut it short buddy.
Everyone else would give some instructions, like keep it long on the back, trim
from the sides and keep the shape. I was clear – cut it short buddy. I didn’t even
bother to see the back side of the hair when he showed it to me after the haircut
through a mirror he would hold up. I wonder what good that did once he’s done
with the ruthless chopping. Anymore and he would have to use the razor.
And so, that’s
me during growing up. Cut it short and tight. Though I do see some pictures of
me and wonder – not bad, I did have a nice mop of hair. Joining the NCC was an
even better decision thanks to the strict hair cut rules that they had. Unlike
other cadets who hate the season as they had to cut their hair – I loved it. A
completely great excuse to have a really bad hair cut. The crew cut.
Crew cut is
something my dad explained to me. A nice crew cut that would protect soldiers
from being pulled by the hair in a fight or simply have less incidence of lice.
I liked that hair cut.
And as a logical
extension of that, I wanted to go bald once in my life. Yes, not having hair would
be so much fun. No shampooing, no combing, no oil, no dandruff and total style.
I came close to it on a few occasions. I remember a barber dissuading me and
sending me home. Then once before a trip we took to Ladakh, my frond V-inu and
me got ourselves a buzz cut. Basically, almost bald – just a little bit of
hair. We did not use a razor but a machine to cut it. That was a fun time. It was
cold and I was semi bald in Leh! I had enough pictures of me and so I was quite
content that I managed to go almost bald and had enough memory of it.
Over the
last few years, I have been balding quite rapidly. Largely it’s a classical
male pattern balding. Receding from the forehead and then in the form a circle
from the back of the head. But my response to that has always been the same.
Cut it short buddy. I never did manage to grow it long enough. Sometimes I do
think that maybe I should grow it long and tie a man bun or something only to
see hair all around the house shed by my lovely ladies and be dissuaded. I have
memories of my friends with long hair constantly preening and taking care of
it. I am so totally above those mere hair mortals.
With my
penchant for short hair, I would constantly look at every opportunity to go to
the barber. My wife would look at my hair and wonder and remark – you don’t need
to cut them. But the rule was quite simple, if it touched the ears it needs to
be snipped. The lockdown was the first time that I was forced to grow my hair
to any decent length, especially over the ears. At first, I tried managing
them, then I had to use hair cream, then I had to resort to constantly comb
them. It was funny. I would comb them and show my daughter – Jispa did you
actually ever notice that I have wavy hair. I would show my wavy hair to her as
they were neatly combed. They would wave in unison like water at sea with the
last bits sticking out.
This hair reminded
me of my dad. His were curlier than mine but in some ways when he used to comb
them, I could see those curls at the back of his head. Mine were so bloody
similar. It was fun looking at them. But I couldn’t handle them for this long. I
was growing tired of them.
I had
bought a hair trimming machine; more like a beard trimming machine. I have used
for long, enough to get the battery spoilt. I must keep charging it if I want
to use it and charge wouldn’t hold long enough. So in spite of knowing this pit
fall, I tried my hand at trimming my hair on my own.
Soon enough
I did well to mess up the event. In any case, I always get tired of looking at
myself for long. I can’t shave for long, or comb for long, or dress for long. I
find looking at the mirror very narcissistic. In a few imnutes I was bored and
boom, I just started cutting my hair completely. The trimmer ran out of charge,
refused to cut properly, I could get to the ends and I had to call for professional
help. Jasmine.
I got her
in and asked to give me the complete treatment. I wanted to SHAVE my head
totally. That’s the right way to do it. No pussy footsy trimmer hair – I want a
total bald plate. It took us sometime, but we got it done. Finally, for the first
time in my life I could fulfill my dream. I was bald. Totally completely. What
a fun!
Just get
under the shower and no more shampoo. Take a face wash and extend the surface
area of application. Its too cool. I could feel the breeze over the head in the
balcony in the evening. Simply apply some moisturizer as well in a similar way
and we are ready for the day. What a revelation.
It’s a nice
feeling. So many people are afraid to do it to their hair. I don’t know where
they loose their confidence on this. I didn’t. I went to office, pretty cool and
I even changed my whatsapp DP to show it off. And for good measure, I have kept
a stubble wit it. Bald plate and a stubble, two things I wanted all my life in
one go. I have finally arrived in life. Style became me. Swag became me.
Here take a
look. Cool nah?
