“You shouldn’t have gotten that trim,” said Nandini thoughtfully. She swilled her drink and finished it off. “A good haircut right about now would be the best thing in the world.”
Sameera fingered her hair. It was already too short for her mother’s taste, and certainly too short for her father’s. She’d only needed a trim a few days ago and had gone ahead with it. She hadn’t known that she would be in a situation that demanded a second haircut so soon.
It was her second breakup that year. This one wasn’t as bad as the first one, and perhaps she was angrier at Delhi than she was at boy-who-must-not-be-named. It was a bitch of a city, she thought. Delhi had to look beautiful when her heart was being broken. And he’d broken up with her in the prettiest corner of Lodhi Gardens, which somehow made it worse than warranted. She had taken the metro after leaving the park; and the train had snaked underground. By the time she emerged from the tunnels of Delhi, the sky was golden—spread across the clouds like marmalade. And then it felt really stupid being broken up with.
She was glad Nandini had called right after the whole thing was over. Before Nandini called, Sameera had momentarily forgotten what she was supposed to do.
Within a few hours, even Delhi had had the decency to cloud over: an appropriate expression of heartbreak. And by the time they started drinking, it was raining in earnest.
Sameera looked at her glass again. This ought to stop hurting in around a week. She would stop feeling stupid and heartsick soon, she told herself. Nandini watched her from the corner of her eye.
“You should,” said Nandini. “Haircut, I mean. Not a trim—a proper one, something adventurous.”
“I know,” murmured Sameera. “It feels like a lot of work, though. I mean—it was only three months.”
“That’s stupid logic, Sameera,” said Nandini dismissively.
“I know,” said Sameera. But her heart felt wrung out. She didn’t know if she had it in her for a haircut. It was serious business, cutting your hair. She didn’t know if she could go through with it anymore. The last time she had a drastic haircut, she still had Tamanna in her life.
“It feels stupid. I feel… stupid.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” said Nandini.
“I know. But I was stupid,” said Sameera vehemently. “I should have—I should have asked for more. I shouldn’t have—I should have been the one to break up with him.”
Nandini analysed her top to bottom. “You’re very hard on yourself,” she said quietly. “You only did what you could. He was—he was going through a lot, and at least you were there for him. The circumstances were extraordinary.”
Sameera scoffed and turned away. “God. I should have—he didn’t have any sort of faith in me, any kind of affection, did he? I didn’t mean anything to him.”
“That’s… debatable,” said Nandini.
“If I had meant something to him, he’d have tried.”
He had been going through a lot, and it was hard to try for other people then—but she had a sneaking suspicion she had not been asking for much from him. It made her feel inexplicably small that he hadn’t even tried to give that much.
It was the sort of iron-clad logic that her friends couldn’t argue with. It was sensible, and in the middle of a breakup, you shouldn’t have any synapses to rub together for a sane and sensible thought. She looked at Nandini directly, daring her to say something to counter the truth of the assessment.
Nandini matched her gaze.
“Haircut. Seriously,” she said finally.
Sameera had another sip of her drink. She wouldn’t know where to start—hair was just… it was complicated. She didn’t want to offend her mother, but she wanted to indulge herself. And the most difficult thought to wrestle with before any haircut was always the most disarming one: that it was just hair. That it would grow back.
But would it? Sameera thought to herself. When she had gotten bangs, it had taken six months to get tired of them. And that was Tamanna didn’t hate them (hair grows faster when your best friend hates your haircut!). Tamanna had liked most of her haircuts, especially when Sameera’s hair was shorter and straighter than usual. Tamanna was a bit of a narcissist—she had short, straight hair herself, and she was usually attracted to women with short, straight hair.
Sameera hadn’t cut her hair very dramatically since—there had been no big changes to speak of, and when Tamanna had stopped speaking to her entirely, it hadn’t been half as dramatic as this breakup. Sameera had responded adequately to the birthday message she received after months of silence. But she didn’t bother texting Tamanna on hers.
That night, they drank through till Nandini fell asleep. Sameera was still up for some time after, sitting in the balcony, staring at the clouds. A part of her didn’t want to sleep. The heartache wouldn’t feel so fresh in the morning.
She stared at her glass as Nandini turned over in her sleep, and picked up her phone quietly. The important thing was to avoid the boy in question, she told herself. Opening WhatsApp, left a few groups that weren’t very important to begin with. He’d never been there for her. Not enough to build any habits around him, anyway. He had hardly ever texted, called a few times, and they only ever met after class. He never came to meet her, never made time for her. It sickened her to think that she had been willing to settle for so little. A little more time. She scrolled through some starred messages, deleting the crumbs of affection she had lived on and deleted them straight away.
And if she scrolled further down, there were texts from Tamanna she had never really gotten rid of.. Sometimes she laughed at those conversations. She was wittier when she spoke to Tamanna. Cleverer.
The stars twinkled. It had rained heavily, the city felt like it had cried its heart out. Which didn’t help, because her heart still felt heavy. But the clouds had parted, and nature was no longer participating in her grief.
It was Delhi’s way, she knew. Delhi was gentle when she was hard on herself. Delhi was kinder when she wanted it to be harsh when she would prefer to have heartache written into the city. All the broken hearts in the city knew Delhi became gentle when she was normally cruel.
“I’m so tired,” she murmured to herself.
She was. She was tired of Delhi, of anger, of boys who broke her heart, of best friends who faded from her life. But on she went, with the constancy of the metro – fell asleep that night because she had promised Nandini she would. Woke up and got out of bed because Emaan would turn up at her door if she didn’t come for class. She simply had to put up with that kind of behaviour, because that was how people were. They slipped themselves into your life like that, like habits you had forgotten you started.
Unconsciously, like an instinct—the last thing she remembered before sleeping was texting Emaan:
Boycut. Y/N?
*
Emaan: Y!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
She was exhausted when morning came, but she couldn’t help smiling at the text. Emaan’s enthusiastic approval ought to mean something, but she didn’t think she had it in her to do anything of the haircut variety today. Even after a breakup—impulsivity hadn’t kicked in. Hair was serious business, everyone’s opinions mattered. Apart from, perhaps, her mother’s.
By the time Emaan came for class, she had made up her mind about the whole thing. She didn’t wait very long to voice her opinions on the matter either. She rushed into class, made a beeline for where Sameera and Nandini were sitting, and announced:
“I think you should do something drastic.” She paused as they looked at her blankly. “With your hair!” she clarified. “Something drastic.”
“To what?” asked Sameera. “Lean into my breakup?”
“Yes,” said Nandini, looking up from her laptop.
“Yes!” said Emaan. “Look at me. I am so excited for my breakup. Can’t wait!”
“Yours is mutual,” Sameera reminded her irately.
“It’s still a breakup. I want an undercut. And shorter hair. My parents will have a fit, but they don’t need to know anything about it until I take my hijab off.”
“You could, you know. It actually feels good,” said Nandini.
“Why?” asked Sameera. Why was a haircut supposed to feel better? Was she supposed to forget all the times he had touched it? She had memorised whatever little he had given her of himself because she never got more. It seemed impossible to even ask for more. She had memorised everything so well, the touch of his fingers on her cheek—all because she had been desperate to make sure this had meant something. Was the haircut supposed to cleanse her of that tendency?
“It’s good for you. It feels new,” said Nandini with all the wisdom of the ages.
She wasn’t the only one with this opinion, unfortunately. Sameera wasn’t soliciting advice, of course, but over time she did have to explain that she had been broken up with. And when she told people that, she usually also mentioned the need for a change. Within the first week, most of her friends told her to get a haircut.
Tamanna would have said something funny. She would have loved the concept of leaning into your breakup and doing something stereotypical. It was the kind of movie-like nonsense that she loved indulging. They’d once coloured each other’s hair over Tamanna’s bathroom sink. It looked good on her, and they had pondered over which shade to buy for days before selecting anything. They painted Sameera’s hair red at the tips—her mother had been shocked.
That was another thing: she didn’t have anyone to… go with. Nandini and Emaan wouldn’t have minded, but she felt hesitant in asking them. She didn’t have the courage to go alone, and even if she decided to get a haircut… where would she go? She hadn’t changed her hairstyle in years and she usually only opted for a trim, or straightened her hair if she was feeling adventurous. Of course, everyone told her which dressers to pick, but Kirti’s suggestion stood out—being the cheapest, and the most aggressive one:
“Malviya Nagar. There’s a Habib’s there. One of the dressers loves doing short hair. Just tell him you want it short, he will love it,” she had said with authority.
“Thanks?” said Sameera, unsure.
“Get it short. Shorter,” continued Kirti. “And also make sure you wash your hair and insist that you have washed it. They will try to trick you into getting your hair shampooed, but you have to say no because then they will overcharge you. Just get the haircut. Two fifty rupees, no more.”
Sameera made a mental note about it, having no intention to follow through.
The class filled with more people as the minute hand of the clock inched closer to the start of the lecture. Paper cups of canteen chai dotted the ugly desks. It was a ground floor classroom, which was lucky since it was getting hotter. Morning lectures in hot classrooms weren’t exactly ideal. Sameera sighed, twirling the ends of her hair in contemplation.
Kirti’s tip had come late: she had already washed her hair that day. The weekend was over, and she had managed to clean her room and get her act together. And she certainly wasn’t impulsive enough to up and leave right after speaking to Kirti and get the haircut that was supposed to make her feel better.
At least by Monday one thing had become clear: her prediction had been correct. She did feel better now that a few days had passed, and as the week progressed, she would only get better. She would be sad from time to time, but she was already… not confused. All of that heartache and turmoil, confusion and renegotiation with her own standards had faded into sadness. Sadness was easier to deal with. At the very least, grief was better than feeling small. One week and the pain was manageable. She had even called her mother!
Her mother was of the firm opinion that it was good riddance. Ammi didn’t mince words, and she didn’t seem to have taken that much of a liking to him, to begin with.
“Forget him,” she said.
“Okay,” said Sameera obediently.
“I mean it!”
“Yes, Ammi,” she teased.
“You never listen to me,” said Ammi. “Fine! Be that way.”
“Arre, Ammi, don’t be cross,” said Sameera. “Come on. Let’s talk about something else. I got a trim, by the way!”
“Oh. Good. Take care of your hair, sweetheart. You should put oil regularly. It’s gotten very thin.”
“I know,” she sighed.
“You know, when your father was being very difficult once, I actually had my hair straightened. It was a good change. You could straighten your hair.”
She bit back a laugh. “I like curly hair!”
It was an old argument between them. Ammi really wanted her to get different hair, and Sameera stringently stuck to her natural hair.
“It’s easier to maintain.” insisted Ammi.
“But I like it curly!”
“Uff,” she said. “Fine.”
“Love you, Ammi.”
“I’m sure,” sniffed her mother. “Go call your sister.”
Her sister was even more to the point. Samia had learned not to mince words from their mother, and she didn’t have the filter of motherhood, either. “You should have dumped him,” she informed her straightforwardly.
“One of life’s regrets,” said Sameera.
“I told you,” said Samia. “Any boy who asks you to not be serious from the get-go is trouble.”
Sameera took a deep breath. Samia was a hard dose of medicine, and she only made everything more palatable by being very funny. In the course of the conversation, she made fun of his hair, of his glasses, of the fact that he was from some corner of nowhere. Out of nowhere, she thought of how Tamanna wouldn’t have liked him either.
She wouldn’t have cared an ounce for him—she might even have told her to break up with him a week into the whole dating thing. She didn’t have Samia’s truthful cuts, but she could be dramatic and combative with her barbs. Sameera couldn’t help but remember them at this time when she desperately needed a laugh. It may have been a week since the breakup, but already the sadness was threatening to become anger—and that was harder to get rid of.
So she distracted herself with organising her laptop, phone calls with friends, dinners outside the mess. And Tamanna was easy to return to, even when she shouldn’t be. It seemed like every day some part of her remembered Tamanna, thought of her—not in a way that made her heart hurt. Tamanna just… occurred to her everyday.She didn’t need her every day, not anymore. But she occurred to Sameera.
Delhi sensed her mood, but as always, did as she pleased. Warmth enveloped the city after Monday. Spring hadn’t come yet, but it was in the air. It felt and smelled like undergrad—and that really did seem cruel on Delhi’s part. The weather had become softer when she needed them to be cold and hard. There was no temptation to cut your hair if the weather was ice and rain. In spring… you could imagine haircuts.
By the time Wednesday evening came around, there were fewer excuses to not go to the hairdresser. For one thing, she ought to do something about her hair before a common class with boy-who-must-not-be-named. For another, practically everyone had weighed in and the decision seemed to be somewhat unanimous. Even then, even then Sameera stopped herself. Wednesday evening happened; she changed into comfortable clothes, oiled her still lengthy hair, and decided to go to bed. As always, before she did, she distracted herself by sorting through old photos on her laptop.
There were things from college that she hadn’t even sorted out. It was the kind of engrossing organisational work that didn’t leave her with space to think of other things. She’d become good at that kind of distraction. Graduation photos, photos Vrinda had taken on the sly when she wasn’t looking—it was all jumbled into one folder, and she could easily trick herself into not thinking of her heartache.
She mulled over her memories, until she stumbled on a particular photo. Tamanna had long hair then—down till her waist. It had been winter, and Sameera was wearing her favourite coat. Tamanna still wore those slim-framed glasses that she had later traded in for to thicker frames. They were making peace signs at the camera, but ironically.
Everything from undergrad seemed so far away. She paused on that photo for a minute—because Sameera’s hair reached beyond her shoulder. It used to be a frizzy, unmanageable mess until she had it snipped off at the end of first year. Tamanna had been speechless when she showed up to college with her hair straightened and with bangs. She had liked that look on her a lot, but unlike her mother, she had told her not to keep her hair straightened permanently.
“It’s a good look for some time,” Tamanna had said. “But you look yourself in curls.”
Sameera sometimes wondered about their friendship. About how good it was, how much she had learned from this one person who waltzed into her life for four to five years, and left it in bits and pieces. Tamanna had entered like a hurricane and left as the water slowed down, so that the majority of the heartache of losing a friend had been spread over a few years. It was the kind of breakup that didn’t seem to have an ending because her friend hadn’t gone somewhere. She was just not hers anymore.
How should she say goodbye? It was easier saying goodbye to a boy who didn’t love her—she got a haircut, and you were somewhere or the other done. All the poets of the world had told her how to feel when her heart was broken, but no one had bothered writing about what to do when your friend left you. It wasn’t dramatic, or painful, it was just stilted and resentful. You fade from each other’s lives as if you don’t know each other anymore—but Tamanna had once known where Sameera kept her mother’s photographs. Sameera had written Tamanna’s earring preferences into four years of birthdays.
And now things were uncomfortable, and she didn’t know how to navigate Tamanna, but she had become a habit that Sameera couldn’t shake off. This was a story about a breakup, and a haircut—but the truth is, painful breakups would never be worse than everyday memories of a friend’s opinion. Sameera could imagine how Tamanna would feel about the new dress she bought as naturally as she could breathe. It didn’t hurt, and Sameera was fine, and so was Tamanna, she was sure. If they checked each other’s Instagrams, Tamanna would be good —posting a photo about the new jeans she bought, with eighty-five-percent cotton. Sameera would resist the urge to comment, but would not stop herself from liking the photograph – and that would be it. It wasn’t painful, and they were both leading good lives, but the story was filled with questions, questions that no haircut could answer.
A breakup was a full stop. Bookended by flirting and haircuts, the story had a consistent theme and pattern. But a friendship was… opinions on your haircut. It was thoughts and shared ice cream, telling each other how to navigate changing your hair, and for whom. It was texting with updates, with stories from college, and decisions on whether to change your cleaning agent. Faded friendships were just questions without all those answers, because somehow, somewhere, she still really wanted to know what Tamanna thought about her new boots.
These were just thoughts, at times, that stayed in her head without making themselves loud. But they stayed and settled—mixing up with anger, with resentment, with even more questions. She would never be able to pinpoint what went wrong between them, only that something did, and then they became people who wouldn’t call each other.
She shut her laptop. Laid down a towel on her pillow, so that the oil in her hair wouldn’t stain. She curled up in bed, and the last thing she did was check the route for the Habib’s in Malviya Nagar.
*
It was a warm morning. She wore her favourite cream dress with a skinny brown belt and a denim jacket. Paired them with silver jhumkas, sneakers, and headed off to the metro. People milled through, going about their day. She spotted many people wearing heavy kurtas and full faces of make-up, many women in the ladies compartment in power suits. Some wearing college clothes travelling across the city to north campus. She nearly stepped on the wrong train, she was so used to going north herself.
It was still terribly early when she reached Malviya Nagar.. Shops hadn’t opened fully yet, even the parlour was just barely raising its shutters. She nervously asked for a haircut at the counter, and the lady gestured to a chair. The hairdresser came forward and asked her what she wanted.
“Short,” she said, chewing her lip.
“How short?”
She glanced up at him, trying to gauge his reaction.
“As short as you can go.”
He grinned. “I could completely shave it off.”
“Maybe not that short,” she laughed. “Just a boy cut.”
“Alright,” he said, without arguing with her. He didn’t even insist that she needed a shampoo.
And she shut her eyes. He sprayed her hair with water, and she strictly avoided looking at the mirror. She felt him snip large clumps, and she continued reading a book. She felt her hair fall in spades, and she continued to avoid seeing what exactly he was doing.
The minutes didn’t pass slowly, despite how nervous she was. It felt like it was happening fast enough, like a strange combination of anxiety and excitement. She resisted the urge to chew on her nails. By the time she finally looked up her hair was…
The most damning thought occurred to her as she surveyed her hair: she wanted to send Tamanna a selfie.
Tanvi Chowdhary is a student of English Literature and did her Master’s from Jawaharlal Nehru University. Her research is primarily concerned with an odd combination of nineteenth-century literature and reading practices associated with fanfiction. She graduated from the International Writing Program of the University of Iowa, and has subsequently been published in their anthology, Multitudes. She has also been published in Muse India, and Asterism.
