The Mystical Relation of Hair & Ice Cream

14 Jun

Why should hair be so inextricably tied to my emotions, I don’t know – but it is a fact that a good haircut can uplift me for a week, while a terrible one has left me in tears more than once.

And the reaction is instant. Serve me a bad meal and I can somehow suffer through it, making appreciative noises as I go. Take me out on the mother of all disaster dates and I will still thank you for a lovely evening and promise to keep in touch. I am the master of the easy let-down. But cut my hair (hell, just style it) in a way I don’t approve, and my reaction to it is completely physical. My face gets red, my throat chokes up, tears flood my eyes, I start breathing heavily – all symptoms, in fact, of my primitive rage. It’s always been this way, too.

When I was seven, for instance, my mother persuaded me to get a “smart crop”. Unfortunately, this turned out to be code for what you might recognize today as the Stereotypical Lesbian Crop. Imagine a really butch woman without access to a talented hairstylist. Back when I was a kid, it was the basic Modern Indian Working Woman Haircut. Short and extremely unfussy, you could probably come out looking freshly barbered on the other side of a tornado. The only people who ever complimented me on the results of that disastrous trip to the salon were my mother, the nice Chinese lady who’d followed my mother’s instructions against her better judgment, and a teacher of mine who sported that exact same boxy cut. Call me a diva but I did not appreciate looking like a middle aged schoolteacher whilst still in the second grade. I ended up throwing a temper tantrum in the middle of the salon, whereupon my mother promptly ordered an emergency pedicure for herself and banished me to the reception area where I spent the next fortyfive minutes cooling my heels, seething in fury, and frightening the rest of the clientele with my panting rage while tugging fiercely at my hair in an effort to make it come out of my head a little faster.

Before you think I was some kind of special needs child – the alarmed receptionist definitely thought so – I should say that I already knew that particular effort wasn’t going to work. It was just another example of my once-ungovernable temper driving me to do things that were the outside of stupid.

But the roots of my hair-related rage go back a long way. It all started, I suppose, when my grandfather decided the time had come to get the baby fluff shaved off my head. I rewarded him by screaming like a banshee – pressing every nerve ending you possibly could in a manic depressive, I imagine. I was brought back home posthaste, victoriously bearing a full head of hair. It grew and grew, curling into loose ringlets that charmed my mother so much, she forgot I was a baby and not her doll. I was, therefore, within sight of knocking on three before she decided to get my hair cut.

I don’t know why she stuck my dad with the job though. Maybe she felt it would be a waste of money to take me with her to the ladies salon where they had things like proper lighting? Or she saw what I’d done to her poor father and just didn’t want to deal with the hassle? Maybe my dad offered like the responsible parent he is? Who knows! But I ended up accompanying my dad to the barbershop he frequented. My first memory of getting a haircut is of a smiling man with a neat beard and Daddy sitting next to me, telling me Not. To. Move. An. Inch. To this day, I can’t relax and get all chatty with a hairstylist because my entire brain is hardwired with my father’s voice telling me Not. To. Move. An. Inch. And so I won’t by God!

At the end of this tense period, where I would sit scarcely daring to breathe while Daddy sat next to me and ostensibly studied me carefully to make sure I was Not Moving An Inch (I couldn’t really tell because I couldn’t see with all the hair in my face), we’d go for a treat.

Our routine was always the same. First came the haircut. Next came the ice cream. In my memory, the barbershop is a sort of antiseptic pale green-blue; the color of a government office. The ice cream shop, on the other hand, resembles an Old West Saloon, complete with wood paneling and rustic furniture as well as a noisy air conditioner. This can’t possibly be true since nobody else remembers my description of it and I think it highly unlikely that someone would go to the trouble of building a secret Old West Saloon for Ice Cream in deepest, southiest South India for my benefit alone. The reasonable explanation is that it somehow got jumbled up with a scene from one of those Westerns my brother was addicted to, but reasonability’s a party pooper so who cares what it has to say?

As I was saying… my father used to take me to an ice cream parlor that resembled an Old West Saloon. And for some reason this was behind the main taxi stand. Because that is a perfectly logical place to build an eatery. Vanilla with carbon monoxide topping. Mmm-mm-mmmmmm!

I remember the inside of this fine establishment as a crowded and rather dingy place, which means it must have been tiny indeed given my toddler’s perspective. I’m sad to say it did not survive the years and thus I have no adult contrast to offer. I’m also pretty sure it smelled like milk in there. I’m going to think of that as a positive. Anyway, as soon as we got in the door, Daddy would head straight for the glass counter and ask me for my preference.

I was three; my nose barely reached the part where the metal ended and the glass began. I couldn’t see a thing but I did enjoy breathing on the tiny bit of cool glass that my face could reach, and looking thoughtful. Eventually, I would place my order: strawberry. And Daddy would place his: vanilla. If he was feeling adventurous, he would switch it up to chocolate but I think that only happened once or something.

I don’t even know how we decided I was a strawberry aficionado. For all I know, my dad marched in there and growled, “What do little girls like to eat?” At which point the terrified man behind the counter probably said, “Strawberry!” because it was all pink and girly and he was afraid to say he didn’t know. Voila! I liked strawberry. And since it never occurred to Daddy to pick me up and show me the various options, I didn’t even know there were more than three flavors of ice cream until I was about five, which is when I learned about the glories of the mighty pistachio.

That was the summer my second cousin came back from the United States and opened a fancy parlor that both manufactured and sold ice cream that you could order and consume curbside in the luxury of your very own car! My auntie took me there one night and introduced me to my first falooda. And my life was never the same again.

But that is to fast forward. Back in our Old West Ice Cream Parlor, we were being served ice cream. Not scoops or scones, but slabs of it. There’s a small part of me that still thinks of waffle cones as exotic because my lizard brain thinks ice cream is naturally served as slabs on cheap white porcelain plates. Good times.

We would sit there solemnly consuming our ice cream, until Daddy had scraped his plate clean and I was still sitting there with half of mine on my plate. My mother was bringing me up to share so I always asked him if he’d like some of mine. My father, meanwhile, was bringing me up to not share eatables with him so he always refused. He would then sit in silence, watching me make heroic attempts to finish the entire plate before taking pity on me when I was about three-quarters through and proposing we leave.

It was powerful magic, for an undemonstrative man and his willful daughter. And like all magic, it was contained to that moment in time. For years afterwards, as soon as I graduated to the big girls’ fancy salon, I couldn’t stand the taste of strawberry ice cream. I would go out of my way to avoid it. Every mouthful tasted like melted plastic mixed with sugar and a slightly sour aftertaste that reminded me of spoiled milk. It wasn’t that I didn’t like it. I was disgusted by it. Even today, when I’ve made my peace with it, it still wouldn’t crack my top twenty flavors. I’d sooner eat blackcurrant.

These days, I tell my dad he should get a pedicure and take him out for coffee. That is our thing now – I push him to try and move an inch while he lets me order unfamiliar items off the menu. It’s a different kind of magic but one thing remains the same: we have a standing date anytime either one of us cuts our hair.


Posted by on June 14, 2011 in Personal


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19 responses to “The Mystical Relation of Hair & Ice Cream

  1. bhel

    June 14, 2011 at 10:51 am

    Funny, well-written, honest. God, I’ve missed reading your posts. I would love to see more of these reminiscences.

    Btw, I had to look up “righteous mantile” 😉


    • Amrita

      June 14, 2011 at 1:49 pm

      Hey there! 🙂 Glad you liked it. I don’t know how long I’ll be able to sustain this but I’m thinking of crawling back here more often.

  2. sachita

    June 14, 2011 at 2:35 pm

    Now you are definitely back, Amrita. 🙂

    “Every mouthful tasted like melted plastic mixed with sugar and a slightly sour aftertaste that reminded me of spoiled milk. ” – we all have different memories of this sort – the pre liberalization children we are!

  3. cinemachaat

    June 14, 2011 at 7:47 pm

    I loved reading this! It’s funny how these little rituals start and how much they come to mean. For a couple of years my grandfather used to come and pick me up from school. He wasn’t supposed to drink coffee or smoke his beloved cigars but once a week we would detour to Acland St and have secret coffee and share some cake. We would sit at our favourite cafe, watch the world go by and just chat about stuff. He was a lovely man, very funny and always kind. I’ve had many a bad haircut, but I am more philosophical than you as some of them were self inflicted 🙂 My current hairdresser is brilliant, makes a good caffe latte and can moonwalk. He is currently learning some Telugu film inspired dance steps too. If you get to Melbourne, I’ll book you in! Temple

  4. Gradwolf

    June 14, 2011 at 10:56 pm

    You were one of those strawberry people! Good it didn’t last forever. My uncle, when he visited India once, got a strawberry flavored deo/perfume(I don’t remember what) for my mom. My dad’s biggest worry was the possibility of ants crawling all around you.

    And yes, nostalgia is a pig.

    Watch Aaranya Kaandam.

  5. Ramsu

    June 14, 2011 at 11:48 pm

    Welcome back! Hadn’t dropped by for updates for a while, so it was good to see not one but two new posts. Hope you made it through the radio silence phase without strangling anyone!

    My relationship with haircuts is pretty simple, actually: I go in with long hair, I come out with short hair. I leave the haircut reviews to the ones around me.

    Dunno about the post-cut ice cream though — my folks would’ve had a cow if I so much as made furtive eye-contact with any other molecule in the universe before taking a shower. That instruction is still hard-wired into my brain.

  6. DewdropDream

    June 15, 2011 at 5:55 am

    Oh it is SO good to have you writing again!

    I hate haicuts. HATE. With a vengeance. I hate having people touch me randomly and I know you don’t necessarily feel anything when anyone touches your hair unless they tug but I HATE it. Grrrrr. My mother loved taking me to some salon or the other and chopping my hair off in that typical ‘boy-cut’ because oh, it was easier to maintain and really, she had so many more important things to do. The one good thing (questionable in itself) that came of it is that up until six months ago, I wasn’t scared of walking into any random place and walking out after a hair cut … can’t say I’ve suffered a bad hair cut as such so I guess I’m lucky I can get my requirements across and hairdressers don’t feel the need to sabotage me. Now I go to this place where a pretty girl cuts my hair and tries to chat while I sit there with my shoulders tensed up. I don’t think she’s noticed. I do enjoy having someone else wash my hair for me though … so I guess really, those ten minutes of the entire deal make it all … acceptable.

    Haircuts. BAH.

  7. Arti K

    June 15, 2011 at 4:49 pm

    Beautifully written, as only you can. Glad you’re back writing – I’ve really missed your posts. Love the ending, “It’s a different kind of magic but one thing remains the same: we have a standing date anytime either one of us cuts our hair.”

    I have one of those heads of hair where one side curls to the right, and the other side also curls to the right so any kind of hairstyle meant to be symmetrical (i.e. curved inward) gets lopsided after my head hits the pillow. It took a while to find “the one”, but I found him – a gloriously gay Mexican man who delights in helping me reach shorter and shorter lengths of hair, and gives me marriage advice (I’m still single). So, I haven’t had a bad haircut day since. You’re welcome to borrow him anytime… I’m near LA.

  8. Banno

    June 16, 2011 at 3:05 am

    What a lovely post! The image of your father polishing off his ice cream and you, struggling to finish yours. Nice! By the way, your blog background is way too awesome. I’m hoping you don’t crawl around here, but come back with a vengeance.

  9. sangs

    June 16, 2011 at 1:56 pm

    i think i remember an incident where i happened to witness your “post-haircut rage”. 🙂
    i remember the abopve mentioned symptoms!

  10. eclat

    June 17, 2011 at 6:11 am

    Good to see you back!

  11. subroto

    June 18, 2011 at 9:57 am

    In my case hair today, gone tomorrow. But such is life….

  12. dipali

    June 19, 2011 at 1:09 pm

    Hair you are, finally!!!! So good to have your back, with your hair-raging tales.
    (Let me stop write hair, the pun monsters have got me trapped).
    Please don’t disappear again.

  13. Nati

    June 28, 2011 at 5:24 am

    Worst blog I have ever read 😦 😦

  14. mission goa

    July 26, 2011 at 2:11 am

    well written; love to read good English!

  15. Shamim Miah

    September 15, 2011 at 7:11 pm

    Hmmmmm. relation between hair and ice-cream? interesting

  16. bhargav

    November 8, 2011 at 9:59 am


  17. Ramya

    December 22, 2011 at 12:53 am

    Got here looking for reviews of Kabul Disco. This is beautifully written 🙂 Hope to read more of you!

  18. Shrey

    February 17, 2012 at 5:26 pm

    Enjoyed reading a lot……. Was completely in past, when, after a hair cut every one at home would exclaim “Arrey! baal kahan gaye???” and i wont answer…. as i had loly pop in mouth. 🙂

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