Why the World Can’t Handle a Bald Woman


Why the World Can’t Handle a Bald Woman

Illustration: Akshita Monga/Arré


h, what a luxury getting a haircut is! The whole ritual of walking into a salon, being asked what look you want, trusting the stylist to make the better choice, relishing the pre-cut hair wash, savouring each cut, and feeling the tiny hairs on my neck prickling with each snip. The hair dryer’s heat sends waves singing through my body. All the anxiety comes to rest when I take a final look in the mirror at my transformed self.

This luxury has eluded me in the last year. A bout of dengue here, the after-effects of hair colour there, accompanied by a cocktail of different hair oils and shampoos, has meant that I’ve managed clumps of balled-up hair strands on the floor without having to sit in the hairdresser’s seat. Looking at those black orbs, floating into oblivion every day led to further stress, and in turn induced even more hair loss.