Hairstyle
Abhay Ghiara
I watch his right hand holding on to the pig hair brush as he carelessly ruffles my hair with his left. We will be late! I say insistently. But he does not hear. Calmly his right hand brings the stiff pig hair brush on my head and digs the pointy pig hair bristles into my scalp. It hurts. Tears run down my cheeks but he does not see them. Or perhaps he sees them. But he will not stop.
My cheeks and chin are held tightly in place with his left hand as he gives me a hairstyle. I did not ask for a hairstyle. I did not want a hairstyle. But everywhere you go in Bombay people are getting hairstyles and it seems like every barber shop that once only declared in large simple letters, SALOON, now has HAIRSTYLE signs hanging in the windows. Some even have imported through the smugglers hairstyling machines that blow hot air.
I am SETTING your hair ok? Yes, no, what did the answer matter? I did not ask for a hairstyle in the first place. He has disappeared for a few minutes and now appears with the old room heater in his hand. It is made of iron and is heavy. It swings and sways dangerously in his left hand, too close to my ear.
Ok, ok, now don’t move! Ok, now! With that he thrusts the heater towards my head so that it is blowing burning hot air right onto my scalp and I can also feel along with the burning the tearing from the stiff prickly pig hairs.
I am not blowing directly on your scalp, only. I am blowing on my hand which holds the brush. My hand would burn first. My hand only would burn if it was hot-hot like you say. It is setting! It is setting! so don’t move. I look up at the mirror and notice that I have a center part, and my hair, which is normally curly and ugly, is getting a bit flat and straight, like Amitabh Bacchan’s hair.
Do not stop – do not stop now! Keep going! The burning has intensified and from time to time he bumps the hot metal of the heater on my head and I yelp. My ears are bright red like Kissan’s tomato ketchup. We will be late, but what does it matter?
Abhay Ghiara grew up in Bombay.
 Loafer's #8, November/Autumn 1996
Loafitorial by Raymond Garcia, begging us liberals to divest the Democrats, a good six years before our local irritables got to it; letters with drawings of stoner Andy and devil Andy, and Peter's list of things you can't do in Minnesota (including: buy alcohol on Sunday, fireworks (since changed), buy a car on a Sunday. You can get a .39 cappucino); Eric Goodell witnesses the end of Detroit's mayor; In praise of St. John's College by Kurt Schmidt; Frederick Urshgur asks: "How Art Thou Lumpen?"; Tom Loretto takes a "Trip"; Andrew Clason's "The Dove"; Sasquatch prowls near Steve Willis; Peter Schilling interviews the artist in question (S. Willis); art by the usual suspects. Mind-Blowingly great cover by Steve Willis.
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