[Gentle Warning: If you are an old reader of this blog, this post may not be for you as this is just a rehash of some old posts. You are welcome to read it all the same]

A recent post about the Great Indian Obsession with long hair brought back memories of my own experiences.

As a school-going child, I wanted long hair. But Mother would have none of it. To my absolute mortification, one summer in my third year of school, she cut it so short that I hoped and prayed the school wouldn’t reopen until it had grown back. Schools, however, do not follow the rules of a little girl’s wishes—or her hair growth. And so, I was forced to face my classmates’ unkind laughter when I returned in June.

By the time I reached college, the tables had turned. My hair had grown long, thick, and lustrous—but now I wanted to cut it. Not very short, just to shoulder length.

I hadn’t reckoned with my tyrant of a grandfather (whom I secretly called Hitler), who had apparently married my grandmother for her long, black, silky hair. His firm “Do not cut your hair” order resulted only in me avoiding visits to the ancestral home. My hair would remain the length I wanted. It seemed ridiculous to grow it long just because Appooppan liked long hair on Ammoomma. Where was the logic? And believe me, logic is huge for me.

Then came my postgraduate days. My wish was, once again, to grow my hair long—and I did. By the time my wedding came around, it was long enough for me to refuse hair extensions for the mandatory, flower-covered single plait.

Soon after, during my first visit home from the L&M’s workplace, my hair was shortened to just below my ears. That’s a long story. The L&M decided to play hair stylist, and in his attempt to “even things out,” kept cutting until he reached my ears. At that point, he had no choice but to stop and rethink strategy—also known as stop cutting before more damage was done. I was such a paavam in those days that I stood through it all without saying a word. Also because he commanded, “Mindathe irikku, enikkariyam enthu cheyyanam ennu!” (Keep quiet. I know what I’m doing!)

Well… if he knew…

Also, he was the one who had to look at me—with or without hair!

Family, friends, and acquaintances were beyond shocked. “Ethu schoolila padikkunne?” (Which school are you studying in?) became a routine—mind you, seriously asked—question. The in-laws couldn’t utter a word; after all, it was their boy who had wielded the scissors. While I kept a straight face, inside I was giggling at their predicament.

I grew my hair back. That part has never been difficult—I have excellent hair-growing genes on my mother’s side. Modern science says the mother’s genes play a major role in hair. Soon enough, I was back to long hair—admired, appreciated, even envied.

But…

One day, the FB (First Born, not Facebook) said, “Amma, your hair is too long. It doesn’t look good on you. Cut it shorter!”

I knew what he meant. A five-foot-nothing person with hair reaching her derrière—and determined to grow further—only looks shorter.

So I cut it. A U-shape, with layers, just below my shoulders. I was happy. He was happy. Friends and family, however, were not.

“Why did you cut your long hair?” they wailed.

I paid no attention. After all, it was my hair.

All was well until, about a year later, the FB returned with, “Amma, your long hair was better. Grow it!”

I was flabbergasted—and quite annoyed. I looked him straight in the eye, enough to make him wilt, and said firmly, “No.” I was not going to dance to anyone’s tune—not even my children’s.

The hairy tale doesn’t end there.

During perimenopause, my thick and once-manageable hair developed a mind of its own—especially on the crown. It curled, thickened, and became so unruly that I began calling myself a golliwog. It was frustrating. All my life, my hair had behaved beautifully, falling into place without any coaxing. I hadn’t even needed a comb!

One day, seeing my haywire crown and the army of pins trying to tame it, the L&M took pity on me.

“Why don’t you just do it? Go for a boy cut—or whatever it’s called.”

I didn’t wait for a second opinion. I had hemmed and hawed long enough.

At the salon, even the stylist was hesitant.

“Are you sure, Madam? Shall I cut?”

“I am going to cut,” he warned again, as if preparing for a rocket launch countdown. I almost expected him to go 10. 9, 8, 7..,

“Yes, please,” I said, polite but firm.

When I returned home that day, I discovered what freedom felt like. I could feel the breeze on my head. It wasn’t hot anymore. I didn’t have to spend time figuring out how to manage or style it. No more bad hair days.

Woohoo! I felt free, free, free.

“This is the freedom men enjoy—and deny women!” I told the L&M in wonder. If there was a hint of accusation, it was directed at a patriarchal society where even women discourage other women from cutting their hair.

From that day to this—now more than ten years later—I have never once regretted the decision. Never ever.

Will I grow it long again?

The answer is the same: Never ever.

Well… not as long as scissors and trimmers exist. 😄

©️ Shail Mohan 2026