So, days before the much awaited Kolkata Book Fair, my father gave this millitary kinda hair cut to me. In jeans and t-shirt, I looked like a boy. Just like a boy.
Father’s first thing, after cutting my hair, was to take a picture of his new creation and upload it on Facebook. One thing for sure, everybody was shocked. Some liked it, many protested against it. They felt my father forced me on this. Questions and accusations were hurled against him. My father too was in his gear, he kicked back enthusiastically with remarks like, “Are you an effiminist?”, “If she is happy, then why are you angry?”, “My daughter’s beauty lies in her hair, so you say?”.
Ultimately my father won. Nobody could give reply to these questions.
The haircut’s name was given Spivac cut.
Friends at school were all round-eyed, mouth wide open. Some named my father ‘Criminal father’. Girls cried for me. Boys gave their sympathies.
Finally, book fair came. People were like, “This is too much! If your father wants to experiment with hairs, say him to do on his, not yours!” Majority couldn’t relate me with the girl I used to be. I was a completely new person.
And then strangers. I sit in a ladies seat in a bus, and a woman calls out, “That’s a ladies seat!” I go downstairs and children ask me, “Bhaiya! Where is the yoga room?” I stand in a ladies line, and a police says to stand in the gents line. Things like these are too frequent.
‘Bad touch, accidental touch’ tags along. People take me for a boy, and in their touches don’t take the precautions that they might have taken if I were a girl. I mean I’m a girl, but people think I am a boy at the first glance. That one is uncomfortable.
I like my hair though. It’s a nice change for sure. Plus I look like a cute teddy bear in this.
My father’s next target is my mother.