Journey with My Hair

It was when I was around the age of 12 when I first started taking proper notice of my own hair. I had been blissfully unaware of its vices and advantages for a large part of my childhood. My mother would mercilessly oil and brush and braid my hair into plaits, whose ends would feel and look as dry as the metal wool used to scrub vessels. I also did not really use any hair products, tamely accepting the new shampoo that my mother would have bought (which would change almost every other month). No conditioner, no leave-ins, no serums, no anything. I didn’t even know what they were. I hated my hair at the time, it used to be extremely dry and get tangled by the time I could sneeze. I just had to leave it open for a millisecond before I would be wailing in pain as my mother would pull the brush hard, down my hair. I was used to the violent life, I still was until very recently, when I realised that I had been approaching my hair the completely wrong way.

As a young child, I wanted hair like the ones in the advertisements for top shampoos. I would look at a Priyanka Chopra or an Aishwarya Rai, throwing their hair around as it fell in beautiful sheets around their form. I grew up watching Sunsilk, Pantene, Loreal Paris, Garnier etc, and as I saw a new one, I would beg my mother to get the new one the next time she would buy shampoo. Of course, conditioner was still something I was partially unaware of, so I wasn’t asking for the conditioner. It was at this time that my mother would tell me two things–one, “if you are not tame yourself, how will your hair be tame?” and two, “no one’s hair ever looks like that in the advertisements, naturally. It is part graphics.” I would have gladly believed that, but I saw friends around me who had silky smooth hair, that they literally did nothing for. Some of them did even less than me, they wouldn’t even apply oil (which my mother sold to me as the miracle ingredient that would make my hair silky smooth) at times.

I had friends whose hair would just flow out of their ponytails while mine couldn’t even be left alone in one, because it would get extremely tangled. My only option to have decent hair was to have it in two plaits or a braid, and even then, the ends which were left free would be a tangled mess. No amount of brushing made it alright (and now I realise that brushing was, in fact, contributing to my hair issues), despite what everyone believed. I was asked if I didn’t comb my hair that day, had I not oiled it, questions and concerns directed at me from all circles. In a school where everyone was dressed conservatively and were very well-kempt in looks, I looked like I had been pulled through a hedge whilst someone banged my head repeatedly on the bushes by the side. While my clothes and attire were always meticulously worn, my hair on the other hand, there have been times when I wished I were bald instead.

I remember the first time I saw a curly-haired classmate, who had beautifully defined curls which weren’t frizzy. That started my desire for nicely curly hair, a desire I still harbour to this day. Every time I wash my hair, I wonder if that is the day when my dream of having gorgeous, defined and frizz-free curls will come true. There are days when I reach close to that dream, days when my hair behaved wonderfully for a couple of days and then, it goes back to square one. I remember that seeing this classmate’s hair was when I properly started wishing for my natural curls instead of the straight hair that a lot of my friends had. I was obsessed with beautiful ringlets and small, tight curls, that were bouncy and shiny. It was around this time that I was able to access the internet with a freedom beyond whatever I had ever experienced until then. I would spend hours online, looking for ways to take care of and maintain curly hair.

My grandparents’ house was my laboratory because it had everything I would ever need. From olive oil to fresh aloe vera gel straight from the plant, I could access multiple ingredients that dominated the world of DIY hair products. I started doing multiple permutations and combinations (this later became a joke amongst my friends, the girl who did P&C for her hair), with very varied and sometimes disappointing results. The problem could have been that despite making those hair masks, I did not have a good hair routine, a good shampoo and conditioner that I would have had to use, plus the freedom to leave my hair without brushing. If I did not brush my hair, it went extremely tangled and I needed to brush it out in order to save my hair was tangling up beyond repair.

This journey is by no means complete, and there are many parts that I simply did not find the space to type out here. Why did I even recollect this journey? I think a part of the reason why is because I grew up listening to people tell me that I should not be caring so much about hair. It is hair, after all, it doesn’t deserve my time and efforts, it never shall. That is quite a toxic idea to preach because it invalidates my insecurities about my own hair and personality, made me believe that in addition to feeling and looking bad and having self-esteem issues, I was, in addition, doing something as menial as worrying about something like hair. It added to my worries, it continues to do so. Even sometimes these days, I catch myself chastising myself for worrying that much about my hair, and then I immediately remind myself of what has been a tough journey, which is still a tough journey (that still suffers from a lack of support from my family). I am still plagued with my mother constantly nagging me to brush my hair and commenting on how ugly it looks, my confidence take a hit on those days, especially if I had just been feeling quite nice about my curls. It is quite a long journey so far, it promises to be an even more tough journey henceforth, I shall be able to progress here, won’t I?

And that’s my memory for the day.

Frustrated Progress

There is just something annoying about starting to learn something new that you struggle really hard with. You want to be better already, visions of being better constantly plague your mind as you desperately search for some other motivation to continue doing what you’re doing. I have recently started trying to learn to write with my left hand because I thought it would be a cool skill to have. Moreover, apparently, training your non-dominant hand also helps you when you’re trying to play an instrument. So here I am, trying to kill two birds with one stone–keyboard and cool skill. Also, I have always been fascinated by left-handed people–it took me quite a while to realise that they were just like me albeit with a different dominant hand. Also, I thought it would be a cool story for after the summer break–“So what did you do during the summer?” “Oh well, I taught myself to write with my left hand, and play the keyboard, apart from other things, of course.” I can already imagine the impressed faces (allow me these few seconds of dreaming, please)

But here’s the deal, learning to write with my left hand is really hard. My hand just wobbles and my lines and letters go jiggling across everywhere. On the bright side, I guess I am slightly better off in that it still remains legible, but that is really no consolation. I mean, I don’t know what I was expecting. It is my ‘non-dominant’ hand for a reason, it is not going to write beautifully out of the blue unless I actively train it. So after just three days of starting to train, I am already getting frustrated because I feel like I am seeing no noticeable changes. There are some small changes, of course, little more speed and a little bit more control, my hand doesn’t ache so quickly. Those are wonderful positives, but I want to get to the result already. Same goes with my keyboard also, I am struggling with this one song that needs both my hands. My hands go haywire, they don’t play in sync and I am getting really frustrated. Again, I don’t know what I was expecting, people spend years trying to learn these things, I cannot expect to master it in a few weeks. Moreover, I am doing pretty great already and struggles are normal, I have made incredible progress.

I think there is this fear we all harbour, that if we are not good at it when we start, we might never be good at it ever. It completely kills our motivation and makes us give up even before we start. I see my handwriting, see my playing and I wonder if maybe I should give up. Those visions in my head are ready to be shattered and vanquished. But then, I remind myself that I have gone that far, might as well go as much as possible. If I fail after that, well, it will be heartbreaking definitely. It will feel like it was wasted effort, but it wasn’t. It was an activity that gave me much joy, if it doesn’t make me a Beethoven or Bach, that’s okay. It has already made me a Yashasvi with a cool new trick and also a Yashasvi who is feeling happier after a long time. To be honest, I think that’s quite a steal (I guess, retail is getting to me these days).

When I got my first book in Tamil, when my father brought home a book from the library, I had just started learning to read and write in the language. I was extremely slow with reading the book, I would read out loud, each word taking me a considerable amount of time. When I read the first page, I felt dishearted, and I closed the book. We had a bunker bed back then, and I used to sleep on the top bunk while my parents slept in the bottom bunk (which was a queen sized bed, so it fit the both of them). I had been sitting with my legs dangling over the sides, while my dad was standing right in front of me to see me read. When I closed it, he said, “well, go on, try reading more.” and I said, “i can’t read Tamil, I am really bad at it. See how much time it is taking me.” He just laughed and said that I should keep trying and that one day in the future, I would be able to read very fast and I will be laughing at myself. I decided to give it a try. I read every day, taking it one page at a time. Now I sit here, laughing at myself for trying to give up so early. I was top of my Tamil class, much loved by my teacher, I love Tamil that much too. All because I waited and didn’t lose hope when I struggled.

Today, I was PMSing, and I was ranting to a guy friend of mine about PMS and things related to my periods and periods in general. When the conversation was happening, I was reflecting on how much I had moved from where I had started with. If anyone had told me, same time last year, that I would be discussing period problems with a guy, let alone that I would have a guy best friend, I would have laughed at the absurd possibility. Moreover, I am quite positive that one of my first thoughts would have been, “So I won’t find any female friend to discuss my periods with or what?” This wasn’t a very conscious journey, to be honest, I did not ‘train’ myself to become friends with guys or anything. I just found guys I could be friends with, and now suddenly, here I am, reaping the fruits of an unconscious effort I had made.

This is the kind of thing I hope to achieve with my trying to learn to write with my left hand or playing the keyboard. Where I realise, suddenly, at the end of a long journey, that I had made myself capable of doing something I hadn’t ever thought I would be able to do. Won’t it be delightful? That, I think, is the beauty of sustained effort. That progress, is so gradual and almost invisible during the process itself, that when you suddenly get reminded to look back, you realise that you have moved quite the distance. There is a saying in Tamil, “Siru thuli, peru vellam” (small drop, big flood). These days, when I spend my time maniacally trying to play a song on the keyboard, or scribbling in my notebook, or doing those writing exercises, they are all small drops. These drops shall one day come together to make up a flood that will surge forth with amazing power. That flood shall not drown my villages, but instead bring forth the minerals and the soil to ensure they all flourish. Sometimes, a kind of progress that creeps up on you is much more gratifying than all those instant ones, right?

And that’s my memory for the day.