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Why might a grown man, a consummate, restless, creative professional, an avid reader, a hungry gourmand, a busy mentor to many young men, a 24/7 pigeon singer, and a daydreamer with boundless vision, torture himself by bleaching his hair? Why would anyone put themselves through such an exhausting, painful, and difficult ordeal as stripping their dark, dark hair to platinum blonde? What makes it impossible for someone to be locked up in even the most free space by voluntarily surrendering to a six-hour or more seemingly endless process?
I was both scared and excited when I rode with my friend Ravi Roy to New Hair Salon in Vasant Vihar. Ravi was relaxed, cutting his hair and beard, which was somewhat of a chore, even if he was in a new salon. On the other hand, I was going through a ton of questions a minute, or so it seemed. You questioned my intellect, my intellect, my sensibilities, my manhood, my place in this world, my age, and my whole being. I was nervous but also elated at the opportunity that lay ahead of me. Adverb, progression, advancement, refreshment, opportunity to grow, to feel renewed, to make old dreams come true. A torrent of emotions did not answer my questions but distracted me from having to answer the problems my mind raised. The trip, where I summoned up the courage to dye my hair white, was the longest 20 minutes I’ve experienced in over 50 years. Every minute was filled with deep thought and introspection. Each 60-second session brought with it as many nerve-wracking notes as it did the hopeful, adventurous thoughts I might encounter post-treatment.
Therefore, I focused on my longing and the positives I associated with it. I remained steadfast in giving Neu Salon that chance to help me realize a dream and indulge in the fantasy I always dreamed of. Arriving at the salon, I heard in my head the voice of my parents, urging me to do my best at every moment, to think about my choices intelligently, to be bold in what I choose and how to do things, and I do it. So in a way that doesn’t hurt anyone, brings me joy and comfort, and moves me forward in my life’s journey and the dreams and goals I set for myself that make me proud of. As a child of six, I would watch my mother, who was in her early thirties, the only woman in her circle of friends with salt and pepper hair. She loved the confidence and comfort she endured and lived this part of her life on her own terms. Peer pressure forced her to dye her hair, but my mom never entertained the idea, or at least openly about us kids. The youngest of my siblings, I found myself in my mother’s shadow, imagining myself as her friend, even if only in my head. Its dramatic Black and white hair which seemed so carefully drawn was nothing less than wonderful to my little eyes, and from that time on I fancied myself with white hair like my mother’s.
I’ve been warned that it will take between four and seven hours to achieve the color I want. I was told it would hurt and test my patience. I was ready for a bumpy ride, but what I experienced was a test of endurance that I had never experienced before. By the end of the last round of whitening, I skipped the length of the salon, grinding my teeth to absorb the pain. Those last 33 minutes were the most excruciating and excruciating moments of my life – and that includes multiple surgeries and the incredible COVID pains.
There were many moments during the half hour that I wanted to stop this madness, go back to my natural mahogany brown, and continue living as I had been up to that point. But then, when my stylists gave me one last rinse and got rid of all traces of bleach, my hairdresser gave me one last blow and massively dried my hair, I saw in the mirror the face somewhat close after the woman I had always admired for being the bravest and kindest human being on the planet. I was finally living a dream. I was doing something daring, feeling big and daring enough to take a risk, to be edgy, to do the out of the ordinary, what society would call very strange or very strange. And now, after I’ve spent more than six agonizing hours turning a dream into reality, I find myself no less of a man, no less human, and certainly a richer, more fulfilled version of myself. I now understand better why people may color their hair in unexpected ways, may curl or straighten their hair, may have braids or extensions, may shave off all of their hair, or style it in ways that others may find unnatural or wrong.
They are the reason I am sharing this story with you. There will be people who don’t understand why I chose to dye my hair white. They will judge me without knowing or caring that I have finally achieved a dream I had for four decades and that this act is one of color my hair It is an affirmation of myself and my identity. I am grateful to be proud of who I am and, with that, my place in this world. My parents, siblings, their spouses, nephew, friends, colleagues, and clients have all shown me respect for who I am and never said or done anything even remotely. On the contrary, these people have given me every space to be myself. My good fortune in life, or at least my struggle easier than most people have to go through, has me always thinking about being the voice of those who can’t speak up and speaking up, and challenging myself to be more outspoken on issues—like those scorned convention hairstyles—that he just can’t. Others deal with it, let alone address it publicly.
The first thing my mom said when she saw my white hair was, “Why did you do that? Don’t you realize that you’re going to stand out more than you did before?” The distance the phone couldn’t cover was at a loss for words. What I wanted to tell the woman I imitated by bleaching my hair was that after 20 years, at the age of 50, I finally found the courage to try something I really wanted to do. She was in her thirties more spunky than I was in my thirties and forties. After I painted my hair white, I finally found my voice, my freedom, and my proudest connection to my future. Why don’t we stand out? We only have one life to live. Live, live full, live proud!
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