Choti Mata’s Notes : Body hair is not exactly an appetizing choice of
topic for anything, least of all a blog post. But hey, Choti Mata has recently been
subjected to a particularly tormenting session at the local salon that
threatened serious emotional damage lest she vent out her fury. Since, a hands
on scuffle on the adjacent road was out of question, she has taken this less
damaging (and less dangerous) method of keeping her sanity (or whatever is left
of it anyway) intact.
“Arey! I can still see small hair
on this finger. Do a thorough job”
It was the 10th time
this statement had been repeated in a span of less than 5 minutes. It was also
the 10th time I had reminded myself that I needed to work on my
timing and stop bumping into finicky females during my salon visits. The
female in question, who shall henceforth be referred to as ‘pretty woman’ (I am
not being sarcastic. She really was pretty) meanwhile seemed totally unfazed
and focused on her quest for perfection.
The harrowed salon girl bent
further, squinting really hard to see the alleged hairs. They were evidently
working very hard to remain unseen. After a few seconds, she conceded defeat in
this game of hide and seek and just went on doing what she was expected to do, presumably
praying that those hairs would have mercy on her and at least stop being
visible in whatever hyper sensitive lens the pretty woman was using to find them.
It was several harrowing minutes
later that the pretty woman was marginally satisfied and the poor salon hand
could extricate herself from her clutches.
By the time she made it to my side, offering me a tired smile, I was
already having a massive empathy attack and was on the verge of walking out, if
only to spare her of any further torture.
I did not walk out. I could not. Because I had
to be seen in public the next day and even though I had no penchant for the perfection
that the pretty lady sought with admirable dedication, I still did not want to go out
there looking like I could use a lawn mower. But I was totally unable to shake off
the guilt that seared me every time I told her that I could see hair on my
whole goddamn arm.
I hate salon visits. I really
do. They tend to make me feel strangely violated. And guilty of being a slave
driver. Usually, both at the same time. It is about as disturbing a combination
of emotions as it sounds.
But before I delve any further
into the meat (or the follicle) of this matter, let me clarify my stand on the
elephant in this post.
The body hair.
As a huge fan of body autonomy arguments, I have nothing against individuals, including women, who actively choose to not get their body hair removed.
The body hair.
As a huge fan of body autonomy arguments, I have nothing against individuals, including women, who actively choose to not get their body hair removed.
Yay! to the hairy leg I say, as
long as it is a matter of personal choice and makes the individual in question
happy. I also expect the same courtesy to be extended to the individuals who
choose to get their body hair removed, again strictly as a matter of personal
choice.
I have been on both sides of that
fence. Because, by the time I had discovered and ventured into the masochistic world of
body wax, it was alarmingly late (by teenage esteem standards anyway) and I had
already, albeit unintentionally militated against the convention for several
years.
However, after I did cross that fence, the
choice to stay there was pretty much deliberate and intentional. Convenient as
it was, I realized I just I did not subscribe to the idea of preservation of
body hair—mine or anyone else’s. (Loose translation: Hairy individuals=big turn
off) But as I said, I respect personal choices. Including the extreme ones—like
the choice to prance around like a baboon. I am cool—as long they are not
making mating calls in my vicinity.
So, I don’t like body hair. Which
against the background of my absolute aversion to salon visits is a preference
that ends up being a massive pain.
Still, prudence tends to score
over petulance and most times, I am able to make it to a salon before things
get out of hands. However, as I mentioned before, I totally lack the
penchant for perfection that the pretty lady exhibited and tend to prefer my
stay in the salon confines to be as short as possible. It is hence rare for me
to get anything beyond the obvious out of my salon visits—least of all, a food
for thought topped with an epiphany.
This time, it was different.
Different because, sitting there, watching the pretty woman getting all worked
up over five stray hair on her finger--it got me thinking.
It got me thinking about the sad
world that the pretty woman seemed to belong to. The world where people managed
to tear their eyes off her undeniably attractive face and focus on a bunch of invisible
hair on her arm.
Then, a terrifying realization
came crashing down on me. The realization that perhaps we belong to the same
world. The world where the possibility of me being judged by the quality of my
wax job was much higher than me being judged for anything remotely more
substantial—what I have to say for example.
There is enough evidence around
to support that particular conclusion. A thriving cosmetics industry,;an even
more thriving advertisement industry that seems to find the core of all its
creativity around women’s body; body image issues that seem more like an
endemic and the pages of the Hindi daily that were lying open in front of me and
telling me how turmeric was the only treasure that I needed in my life because
it would keep my skin glowing.
It was a terrible realization. It
made me want to throw up.
I left the salon within next 15
minutes. The bright light day made me see things a little more clearly.
Then I had that epiphany.
Then I had that epiphany.
I did not spend any more time in
the salon than I had to. The pretty woman did not spend any less time in there
than she wanted to. And we were both off
on our merry ways, none less or more in worth than the other.
Perhaps, my horrifying
realization was true. Perhaps, our world is indeed very shallow. Perhaps, they
are out there—judging us within their shallow understanding of an individual’s
(especially when the individual is referred to as ‘she’) worth.
And yet, just like the body hair,
this too is a matter of personal choice. My personal choice of the extent to
which I allow myself to be judged. Or be judged at all. And just like body
hair, neither side of the fence is wrong. Not really. Not as long as the so called
choice is actually personal and not a product of external conditioning.
There shall always be judgments.
It is inevitable. But, subscribing to those judgments is a choice. Being governed
by those judgments is a choice.
Being judged is always a choice.
Please feel free to say no!
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