M.M. George's Blog, page 4

The Return of the Haircut

Last week I went for a haircut. Pause for a moment. Internalise the import of those words: I ‘went’ for a haircut.

I am not vain about my hair. Nature has given me no cause to be. Apart from a couple of attempts to perm it and to give it a dashing streak of burgundy, my hair and I’ve been leading generally disparate lives.

Yes, there has been the odd social occasion when the hair has not risen to meet the challenge of my inner sophisticate. But I’ve learnt to put that aside, as has my hair. Put me aside, that is. And go about its wilful way, usually looking as if it has just seen (a) a cockroach, (b) a ghost, and (c) my boss in the days when I had one.

Some ten years ago, I did try to assert myself. By shaving all my hair off – there, that’ll learn it, being the message. Also to assuage a recurring nightmare that all my hair would fall out one day. That’s me: if I’m scared of something, I’ll go all out to make it happen.

The bald idyll ended abruptly when the very Malayali security person at IGI airport security asked me even as she whisked her wand over my visibly ponderous breasts, ‘Are you a man or a woman?’ I lifted said mammaries in reply and quirked an eyebrow at her. The incident stayed with me for a long time.

Menopause – or was it HRT? – brought with it unexpected blessings in the form of enhanced hair growth. Yes, on the upper lip as well, but also on the head. The husband provided a stylistic tip here by going ‘no poo’. No, that’s not what it sounds like. He merely banished shampoo from our lives.

Suddenly, my hair was in flourish mode. I loved it, except that now, we were living in a country where fancies like hair styling cost close to a hundred quid. Each time. So I stayed with the husband’s monthly efforts and began to forget to look into the mirror.

I thought I’d hit the jackpot when I discovered an Iraqi hairdresser in Swansea who charged a flat ten quid for any kind of cut, but did not run to any fancier stuff. Which was fine by me.

What was not as fine was the man’s constant replay of his two ex-wives. It was only when the brushing off of stray hair began taking longer than the haircut itself that I twigged on. In my defence I’ll say that women of my age and silhouette tend to get invisibilised (and, yes, that’s a word) in terms of male attention. Passes become something that Ranbir Kapoor makes at me at 3 am.

To return to Covid times, my last haircut was on 21 December 2019. The hair had used the op to blossom. There, that’ll learn you, it seemed to be telling me. And there was no recourse available.

In April, desperation met hysteria. And I begged the husband for help. The problem was that a month later, I was asked to return the favour. Unlike me and mine, the husband and his hair have been on a lifelong honeymoon. I was petrified to be asked to play gooseberry. The only option was to stall. So I stalled.

I was lucky. I had to stall only for a month or so. Like, I said, last week, I – make that we – went for a haircut.

 

Fit in Bits

‘Let’s get you a new Fitbit,’ said the husband. The birthday present challenge was still on. The earrings had done a peremptory exit as soon as we decided against the smart watch. Fulminating against the husband’s sieve-like memory, I’d gone and got myself the earrings, thus downing the shutters on that gift option.

‘It was my idea!’ I cried, aghast. ‘I suggested getting you a Fitbit for your birthday in the first place.’ Pause. ‘Besides, I’m very happy with my current Fitbit.’ Not strictly true. For I always hanker after technology, preferably of the latest variety.

‘I’ll take your old Fitbit,’ he said peaceably. I was not as sure – it was a birthday present after all.

A look into the annals of Jain history is needed here. The Ma-in-Law was clearly running out of conversation topics one day when she asked the husband, ‘What did you have for lunch today?’

‘Sandwiches,’ he replied without thinking ahead. I winced. Thirty-three years of close ties with the Ma-in-Law, and I could almost see the furrows appearing in her forehead as she digested that.

It was just a question of time. Three days later, the lunch question popped up again. ‘It’s not that I’m curious,’ she offered by way of explanation. ‘Just that I worry about your nutrition.’ Thus swiping left in one stroke the millions of people all over the world who had sandwiches for lunch every day.

The conversation did however oblige me to give the husband the once-over. Lockdown had not been kind to either of us. Let us just leave it at that. I do not fancy my odds post-divorce.

That was why the Fitbit. If I could not feed the husband roti-dal-sabzi-raita every afternoon, at least I could try to make him fitter on sandwiches. Make him count how many steps he took. Or at least count how many steps he did not take. Bear in mind that the husband will take the car to the Tesco that is a five-minute walk from our flat.

As usual, it was left to the son to make a timely intervention. ‘Look,’ he reasoned. ‘What is the important point here? That you make Dad think healthy. That can be achieved with your old Fitbit as well.’

‘And,’ he added slyly. ‘You get the chance to upgrade your Fitbit. As you’ve wanted to. Win-win all round.’ The son is truly a chip of the old mater block. Note to self: must remember to stop confiding in him so much.

It’s not easy giving in to the husband, but clearly, needs must in this case. I looked at my Fitbit sadly. It had stood me in good stead over the last three years. From the first year’s frantic 10,000 steps every day to the more relaxed pace of the next two years when even 7,500 steps made me ecstatic.

‘On to fresh pastures, son,’ I murmured, patting it fondly on its scarred (slightly, from my first coastal path walk) face. ‘Believe me, you’re moving to a gentler life.’

The Gift Option

‘Shall we get you a smart watch?’ The husband is like that. Any decision, even suggestion, has to have me complicit in it. You can guess how that progresses. ‘But you said so…’ thus removing even that wifely prerogative from me.

‘I don’t want a smart watch!’ I cried. I’d just signed off on a hissy fit. I’m having more of them these days. Maybe a direct result of being 24/7 with the man I love. Thirty-four years ago, this state would have been all my Christmases come at the same time. Now, less so.

It wasn’t a hissy fit without reason. It seldom is. We were in the beginning of July and I was yet to get a birthday present. NB: My birthday was in the beginning of February. The husband had proffered the lockdown as an excuse. He tends to forget his five years of scientific training and the importance of precise calculations when it comes to puzzles like the dire necessity of getting his wife a birthday present at the correct moment in time.

‘Why?’ We were back to the smart watch.

‘Because it’s too expensive.’ ‘Besides, what would I do with a smart watch?’

‘You could take calls on it?’

‘I have a smartphone.’

‘It could count your steps.’

‘I have a Fitbit.’

‘You could listen to music on it.’

‘I have a smartphone, remember? And Saavn. And Spotify. And Podbean. On it.’

I was on the brink of another hissy fit. Because, early in the lockdown, writhing in the pain of my helix piercings – yes, we’re back to that again! – I’d asked the husband to get me a pair of comfortable earrings as soon as the shops reopened. It clearly was not even a blip on his mental horizon any more.

What is a woman to do? Last year, the husband took me literally at my word and got me a year’s worth of cleaning as a birthday present. Never mind that it didn’t quite stretch to a year because the cleaner upped sticks to be with her partner in North Wales. This year, clearly, my word did not amount to much.

I changed tack. ‘Actually, why not? I believe I can connect my bank card to a smart watch and make payments through it. That would make shopping so much easier.’

Alarm quivered on the husband’s face. Then red panic. I could literally see the cogs whirling in his brain as he manoeuvred gears to pull himself out of the ditch he’d reversed into.

I might not have studied engineering, but I’d definitely learnt about the ‘quality of mercy’ and its ‘twice blest’ nature. So, eventually, I asked gently, ‘Shall we go and look at some earrings?’

This Is Your Bladder Calling

Caveat lector! This post is not for those whom Mummy brought up to daydream through a six-hour journey in a seat directly over the rear wheel of a Haryana Roadways bus going to Kaithal. Without their bladder once reminding them what relief used to feel like.

I’ve heard there are such people.

For us lesser mortals of the female variety, life is a constant hunt for the loo. And desperation when you can’t find one. Like the time I got an auto-wala to stop in a deepening dusk in Delhi so that I could relieve myself by the kerbside. What can I say? I was eight months pregnant. And the auto-wala did look tactfully away. He even helped me up from my squat. It took me several years to forgive the son that indignity.

Digression over. Cut to present times. The times of Covid-19.

The husband and I were standing on our strip of a balcony. ‘There’s another pair,’ he crowed delightedly, pointing to the two cops who were strolling below us. That’s the husband’s hobby du jour – counting cops.

Below us, Saturday evening was on in full swing. Hence the cops. Swansea had just come out of full lockdown. Bars and restaurants were open. And people were thronging them. But thronging outside on the piazza close to us. For that’s all they could do: order their drinks as takeaway and stand around drinking them. Looking at the crowds near us, you would think Covid-19 was a Prozac-induced nightmare. Never mind the cops, they were there merely for the husband’s delectation.

‘Look at that, will you?’ The husband’s tone had changed. I looked. Two girls were emerging sheepishly from the large bush that stood between us and the river. No marks for guessing what they were doing there. Swansea’s bars and restaurants were open, but not their toilets.

I sympathised. Deeply. Caught short on my walk the other day, I had looked hopefully into the door of M&S. Only to be waved haughtily away. I then took my bladder to Debenhams. Which was open after several months of quarantine. ‘Our customer toilets are not open,’ said the girl at the counter with the cheery insouciance of one who has known only the pleasures of sex, not the aftermath. ‘You’ll have to use the toilet in the bus stand.’

Now the thing is, the bus stand charges you for using their toilet. 50 pence a go. And I believe firmly that God created us to emit bodily fluids at regular intervals. Ergo, it is beyond our control. Ergo further, we should not have to pay for things we cannot control.

My knickers were twisted twice over, but I made it to Tesco. It was a serendipitous moment. The cleaning crew had not closed the loo till further notice. And, there was a free stall! Oh the relief!

Revert to Saturday evening on the balcony. The bush girls had strolled away. But the husband was still on his British foot. ‘This is not India!’ It really wasn’t. Last time I went to Noida, you couldn’t see the footpath for the toilets mushrooming everywhere. But maybe Covid-19 has struck there too.

Meanwhile, this is the moment I realise my belly can be put to good use. ‘Gosh, the baby’s kicking so bad, I’ve really got to go!’ Pregnant bladders can open many doors, mainly toilet doors.

Piercings and the Lost Zzzs – II

I recently watched a YouTube video. On helix piercings. After the event. Not helpful at all. I already knew that. Only I didn’t know I had to know all that. Before the event.

To summarise the video: healing sucks, tick; sleep goes out of the window, tick; can’t change jewellery, tick (witness my pus-filled ear in April); gets caught on things, tick; headphones, headbands become instruments of torture, tick; pillowcases sport suspicious stains, tick.

I walked out of that jewellery shop on Christmas Day, with just one line of warning: do not touch for the next three weeks. Easy-peasy. I have since learnt that a helix piercing can take six–eight months to heal, maybe even upwards of a year if you fiddle with it. Tick. And we’re only seven months down the line as yet.

Just last week, I tried to change my earrings. Yet again. My fingers now encounter crusted blood whenever I touch my ears. Yet again.

I came back to Swansea in February thinking the first thing I would do was visit a piercing parlour and get some suitable earrings that would make sleep a more achievable goal. Enter Covid-19. Well, let’s just say that sleep has become a long-term goal now. Maybe even a five-year plan.

Meanwhile, the son’s friend’s words were doing a hamster run in my head. Mid-life crisis–mid-life crisssis–mid-life crisisss – you get the drift? My head is costive like that. That’s a polite way of saying constipated. And that’s a rude way of saying what goes into my brain is difficult to dislodge. And I now had plenty of time to hear this particular hamster running circles. At night.

It took the son coming home to put things into perspective. ‘No one can have a mid-life crisis for five years,’ he said firmly. ‘Not even you.’ And an after-thought, ‘Shall I go and sock him for you?’

In June, I went to M&S to get some chocs for the husband. Father’s Day, right? The girl at the counter had a piercing. In her nose. I remembered not to lean into her as I whispered urgently, ‘Did that hurt? Look at mine, it’s been six months.’

Her eyes grew fuzzy with sympathy. Melted chocolate, I’d call it if I didn’t have those piercings. ‘Oh gosh, those are the worst. I let mine close up, they were so painful.’

If it had been a mid-life crisis, I would have abandoned my piercings by now. I swear. A mid-life crisis would be like blueberry pancakes compared to my helix piercings.

Piercings and Mid-Life Crises – I

We landed in Delhi on the morning of Christmas Day last year. By late afternoon, we were sitting with the parents at a prominent jeweller’s, examining earrings. Early in the new year, Amma was to be led kicking and screaming to a ‘big’ birthday, and Appa wanted to buy her ‘something nice’ to ease the pain.

I too was in a mood of atonement for Amma had told me almost as soon as I put foot in the house that it was all because of me that she was no longer colouring her hair, and that was why she looked so old! Never mind all the years she has let flow under various bridges.

How we got from Amma’s ears to mine is still somewhat shrouded in jet lag. But there I was, getting a helix piercing. No, I didn’t know it was called that till a few seconds ago when I looked it up.

As soon as the jeweller’s assistant blew the hole into my upper ear, I knew it was all wrong. The pain was e-x-c-r-u-c-i-a-t-i-n-g. I finally understood terms like seeing stars, blinding white light, seeing my life flash before my eyes... But I’d proudly demanded ‘Both!’ when, earlier, he’d enquired which ear I wanted done. There was no question of backtracking now.

Repeat stars, white light, life flashes. I was whimpering with pain. In between the life flashes, I saw scenes of me sneering at people with multiple piercings, on the ears or elsewhere. I’d sneered all through the time when such things were fashionable – at least twenty years ago.

Then I got a tattoo, another object of previous sneers. And began musing – for five years – on where I’d get a piercing done if I were ever to indulge myself. Most parts of the ear, which was the only organ I could contemplate getting pierced, were so very Punjabi. Then I remembered a photograph of my great-grandmother with a great big gold clasp in her upper ear. It kind of slam dunked it all together. And now the deed was done. Little did I realise, the forty minutes or so of sleep I’d grabbed in the plane the night before were the last I was going to achieve for a long time. A very long time.

I do not sleep on my back. The new earrings had butterfly clips which poked into me and jolted sharp jags of pain into my head every time I turned my side. And I could not touch them for the next three weeks. And it was rapidly turning into the worst winter Delhi had ever seen, read caps were needed 24/7.

On New Year’s Eve, we went for dinner with some very old friends, the ‘old’ marking only the duration of the relationship. The friends’ son and our son were like Jai and Veeru in school, except that their song was ‘Tu tu tu, tu tu tara’. (That was pure vendetta!) And since the son was not there, his friend was doing all he could to make me not feel his absence. Abrupt hug – wait, not my ear, you idiot! – monosyllabic replies, the works. He did shove some mulled wine my way though.

Soon enough, the conversation trended towards my new aural acquisitions. I could almost forget the pain the blasted things were causing.

Then, from somewhere, the son’s friend found some more words: ‘Are you having a mid-life crisis?’

Say It Ain’t So, Joe!

The husband had been busy. Deadlines to the power of n. No time to go out even for the short spin that Covid-19 permitted us.

I’d begun to feel like a hamster on a wheel, doing the same two circuits for my walks. Admittedly, it was either along Swansea Bay or the tree-lined River Tawe, but after three months of playing either/or, both had begun to pall.

Then the sun came out. Swansea – and the UK – was having a freak blast of heat in mid-June. It has been known to happen. Those of you sweltering in +45-degree Delhi might growl disbelievingly, but believe me, if the UK can do cold, it can certainly do hot, even if it is for just ten days in a year. Something about the angle of the rays – I looked it up once, but it refused to stay with me – makes the sun hotter here than anywhere else we’d experienced, even Delhi. And the husband had no time to take out our solitary fan.

But he jumped for his car keys when I told him casually that Joe’s had opened for takeaways. And we found ourselves in a queue. Which snaked around the block. Note: Joe’s is rightly famous for its ice cream in Wales. But not, as we discovered, for business sense.

‘Gosh, when I think of how much money we spent at Baskin Robbins in Delhi, it must have been enough to float a small economy,’ said the husband contemplatively as we moved another two metres forward. Maybe it was the sun we were standing in, but that’s the husband for you – thinking of money spent when we were waiting to spend some more.

There was an interesting conjoining of the planets here, so I must digress.

One, the husband and I – and our extended family – love ice cream. If most marriages are made in heaven, ours was made in the ice cream churn. The Ma-in-Law is famous in many social media groups for her non sequitur, ‘It’s healthy, it’s only milk’, even in peak winter. Appa’s weekly treats of Kwality’s Cassatta still melt in my memory.

Two, summer is not really summer unless we go to the beach in search of ice cream cones. Rum ‘n’ Raisin, preferably. It’s a tradition, as is watching the troupe of bikers that throngs the ice cream shop with us. Mean machines parked to the side and fully geared up in leathers from head to toe – the bikers, I mean – weather roughened faces, pony tails, in short the kind of men you would not care to meet in a dark alley. All licking ice cream cones!

Three, Covid-19. No shops, no ice cream cones. We’d had to make do with Nuii’s latest flavour, Coconut and Indian Mango. We are patriotic, so we’d gladly made the move from Dark Chocolate and Nordic Berries. But Nuii offers only ice cream bars. Not the stuff that makes life worth living – the sundaes and the cones.

Enough digression. We’d reached the head of the queue. ‘Have you placed an order?’ asked the grim-looking woman at the door.

‘Sorry?’

‘Have you placed an online order?’ Not so patiently.

‘No.’ Hesitantly.

She looked beyond us, ‘Next!’

And that was that. Apparently, Joe’s required you to go online and download their app and place an order. You would then be given a day and a time slot in which you could collect your order. For ice cream? Seriously?

We’re back to Nuii’s Coconut and Indian Mango. With Ben & Jerry’s Birthday Cake as a palate cleanser in between. Joe’s? What’s that?

Silk Pillows and Sow’s Ears

It’s not that I dislike online shopping. Amazon Prime and I have been besties for years now. But a browse in a shop, the tactile experience, a little banter with a friendly salesperson, Amazon couldn’t weigh up to that. Till we came to March 2020. Then Amazon became the only friend I had.

And, suddenly, Amazon was offering me silk pillowcases. We best friends are like that, we can read each other’s minds, anticipate needs, you know. Why did I need silk pillowcases? Because I’d read somewhere that they are marvellous for your face and hair, keeping them smooth like, well, silk of course. And 60 is looming here, closer mentally than physically, but still.

The only problem was the pillowcases were a bit on the pricey side. The husband had read me a profligacy lecture only the day before, so I decided to shop around. And hit pay dirt, I thought. A set of four lovely white silk pillowcases for 35 pounds. No P&P too. Four was cheaper than two figuratively, so I decided to grab a back to the past experience for the husband as well. Yeah, yeah, I know, but I’m generous like that.

Heart thudding, fingers tapped impatiently on the keyboard. Only two lots left in store, come on, come on… And there, it was done. The ‘Your Payment Has Gone Through ‘ screen popped up. But what was this – 140 quid? Seriously? Did I even have that much in my bank account?

There was no choice but to grovel. To the husband. But to give the devil his due, in times of emergency, the husband can generally be relied upon. Phoning the bank did not work, we were kept endlessly on hold.

‘Let’s go to the bank,’ said the husband. Not his finest hour, for we queued 20 minutes to get into the bank, ten minutes to sanitise ourselves upon entering, and 65 minutes on the phone, only this time in the bank, to speak to someone who might help. Remember, this was at the height of Covid-19, when people were still scared.

The husband’s lips set in a thin line when the bank refused to revert the payment. I had authorised it, only the seller could cancel the payment. That was when I realised that the seller was in America, and it was still Sunday there. I had to wait a full day before the shop opened for business online. By then, my insides had won the Guides badge for best knots.

When we finally got through, the bored salesgirl did not even ask why I wanted to cancel my order. Obviously, there was a pattern here, one she’d encountered before.

I know what. Next time I go back to Noida, whenever that might be, I’ll go buy some silk and get my mum’s trusted darzi to run up some silk pillowcases for me. I will not be defeated.

The Chocolate Elephant

I am not a chocoholic, let’s be clear about that from the outset. I’ve gone two years without chocolate. Not even craving it. A bit of a feat that because our household contains a lot of chocolate. The husband, unlike me, is a chocoholic and will eat chocolate even after breakfast. I have resolutely resisted the ‘have a bites’ that get thrown at me on a daily basis.
But this year, well, it’s been different this year, hasn’t it? I went out for a walk one day and found myself wheezing. And I haven’t done that in a very long while. Panic button got auto-pressed as multiple scenarios jangled in my head. A high pollen count featured, but there were other more worrying possibilities as well that I could not set aside.
Short of screeching and having a hissy fit, there was only one thing to do. Fittingly, I found myself outside a Co-op outlet. And reaching for a full-power Dr Pepper and a big slab of Marvellous Creations Jelly Popping Candy. Both taboo considering my midriff could pass for an eight-month pregnancy at the best of times, but comfort food like none other.
There are people who would sneer at this, but I think Cadbury’s Dairy Milk is a sure runner for a Nobel Peace prize for its MC JPC. Think on it. Milk chocolate peppered with jelly, Smarties and popping candy is a darn good way of shutting people up. And averting conflict. And keeping your mind from dwelling on pandemics.
In short, the JPC is a full-on sensory experience. One that I’d banished from my life with considerable difficulty last time around. And that was now back with a bang. See, the thing about chocolate is that once you have a bit, you can’t stop. I soon found myself craving chocolate at 3 am. Meals were just the precursor for the main course. I began to extend my goody bag. Peanut M&Ms walked in. Then Kinder Bueno. Behind it came Cadbury’s Mini Eggs. And, just last week, I re-discovered a Double Decker. Ohhhh!
Looks of disapproval began wafting from the husband. You see, he’s a bit of a purist. Nothing less than 75 percent cocoa will do for him. Woven somewhere in the narrative of his chocoholism is a wavering thread of ‘dark chocolate is healthy’. What I was gorging on was quite definitely not.
I felt I was back at boarding school. I began hiding my chocolate from the husband. Don’t tell him, but the bottom drawer of my desk is quite full at the moment. I would go out for a walk and bring in the contraband nestling snugly at the bottom of my bag, well above his eggs. I would wait till he went for a shower to break up my JPC into bite-sized pieces and store them in an easy to reach can.
It can’t go on. I realise that. After all, humans can’t be eleven months pregnant. And don’t be fooled by how I look – I am not an elephant. Just let me finish my current stash and I’ll be good after that. Promise!

SLIP 1, KNIT 5

In Coronous times, 4 mm pins are a girl’s best friend. In early March, while Messrs Johnson and Cummings were debating the economic advisability of plunging the country into lockdown, one of my numerous marketing emails sent me an offer. I live life vicariously like that – my window-shopping window opens on my laptop.

Back to the offer. Wool less than half price. And in colourwheels!

I have been knitting since the time Indira Gandhi was assassinated. National crises seem to seek out the knitter in me. Or maybe I’m just channelling Madame Defarge.

In India, I would buy skeins, spend two days winding the yarn into balls before I could get out the needles. Balls were coveted, bought only when the son was due. And these were not even balls, they were wheels – iridescent, flamboyant, in-your-face colourwheels.

In short, these were yarns that I usually sighed over, lusted over and then clicked Close Window over, my funds never having run to more than the wool stall lady in the Swansea Marchnad. So, for once, I clicked Add to Shopping Basket.

When the wool arrived, even the husband forgot to insert his usual caustic comment on my profligacy.

Just then, J&C Ltd announced lockdown opportunely. And so it began. Parents on their own in Noida. Son all alone in Geneva. Ma-in-Law coping without her daily help. The sudden cut-off from my walking group, coffee group, crochet club, book club, gym. All my worries and more besides knitted into scarves and caps. I found myself casting around (see what I did there?!) for people to knit for.

Scarves are my thing just now. And caps for adventure. Scarves are simple, no shaping, just choose a pattern and knit till you reach six feet. Keeps the mind occupied without replenishing the worry store. Keeps my fingers occupied on my daily Netflix binge. No chocolates please, it’ll get the yarn dirty. But more on that later.

Five scarves and four caps down the line, lessons have been learnt. That when the world is disintegrating around me, I’ll opt for knitting rather than crochet. That garter stitch is the easiest stitch in the world, but my nemesis when done over six feet. That you should slip over the first stitch on every row for a clean edge. That it’s better to cast on a scarf with a needle that’s a size larger to keep the edges from curling up. That you should not iron a piece of knitting.

Corona – what’s that?