Like the wild fossa of Madagascar, my hair remains untamed. When I was a kid, I let it grow till the tip of my earlobes. Even an inch further, the mane would start poking my nape. I would lock it away from my face with a white plastic hair band that had two rows of white teeth. Sometimes, a super wide cloth band would serve the purpose. Only, it would make the back of my head look like a freshly trimmed Holly Dwarf Yaupon.
Even as I grew taller, I kept the length of my hair in check. Mushroom cut, my peers called it. Sure, it stood like the cap of Shiitake. A hair stylist suggested I go for ‘Layers’. She ran her scissors through my hair, like she was mowing a field of wild grass. In the end, they fell on my shoulders like wet hay. Until, I stepped out, and the hands of humidity ruffled it into a frizzy mess. So I paid an arm and a leg to coat it with keratin.
More recently, when the keratin wore off, I got a ‘long bob’. Reminiscent of the hairband days, the Shiitake cap slowly emerged. So I cut it further — a tapering bob. It didn’t help much. My hair still billows like a balloon when the car window is down, still gets stuck on the hinges of my shades, and still manages to knot in a way that calls for some Houdini magic to let it free. But what’s tamed is the mind, to call it a good hair day, even when everything is in tangles.