I ran into the room frustrated. He saw the fire in my eyes.
Oh no, he said.
I want to go bald, I said.
The word bald made him gape. He was perplexed.
Why? When? Are you serious? He asked.
As serious as death, I responded. I want to go bald.
Is this some rebellious streak, he said as he eyed my already short hair.
No. I am tired. I have cut my hair short every time I needed to feel in control. Usually, it was enough. My hair is short and I am still craving something.
Should I cut it? It would be a funky look, he said.
I want to be in control, Ravi! Me. So I should cut my own hair then, I said.
He looked terrified.
Go bald. It seems like a good hairstyle. I am sure you will rock it, he said.
I scowled at him. He knew the reason behind my scowl.
I wasn’t granting permission. It is your hair and you will do as you please anyway, he said.
I smiled. Our conversation ended there and we went about our daily routines. A week and a half later, I came home bald. He cracked many jokes about it. He enjoyed it. Eventually, he noticed it didn’t bother me. On the contrary, I felt liberated from the burden of grooming my untamable hair.
After thinking about it for a while, one night I told him as he read his James Baldwin, you should try it too. Going bald I mean. It is a wonderful kind of freedom.
Freedom from? He asked with a clueless look.
Try it and you will be able to tell me, I challenged.
He continued to stare at me with that quizzical expression.