I have just made an appointment for a hair cut next week, in time for the ball.
“No Mummy, No,” I can still hear Andrew say.
You see, when I went to India for the first time, in August 2006, I took the opportunity to cut my hair almost down to zero, so that I could stop coloring it.
I planned the whole thing to perfection. I didn’t do it while still in New York, no, I would not have had the courage.
I did it in Sicily, where I spent a week before flying to India. And even then, the shearing happened only hours before I left. For some reason I was all excited about it. It sort of went with this image of myself I was working on, of a flexible, very flexible, spiritual seeker.
But I have to admit that when I looked at myself in the mirror… I was more than a little shocked.
When she saw me, my mother shook her head, not knowing whether to laugh or tell me off.
I can’t remember what it was that I needed, but on the way to the airport we stopped at a supermarket, and I begged my mother to go in for me, I just didn’t have the nerve to walk in and let people see me like that.
Anyway, even though Andrew hadn’t yet joined us in Europe, in fact I left as he arrived, and he didn’t see me until a month had passed since I had almost shaved my head, my hair was still very short a month later, when I got home.
By that point I loved it actually, but he was horrified.
Ever since that time, whenever I made a hairdresser appointment, he would tell me that I should not have my hair cut, that I should let it grow. The whole thing was so sweet, even the angry look he would give me when I’d come home with my hair short once again.
But you know what Tig? This time I won’t it have cut too short, just a little trim. Promise!