On giving up my hair–innocence
I still don’t quite fit into the picture: a fancy, modern, supposedly French hairdresser’s, where three people like busy bees whirl around me to blow my hair, brush my hair and cut my hair; another ‘servant’ insisting that I have a glass of water while my hair is being huffed and puffed on; a couple of idle rich housewives with their busy, yet obedient husbands waiting around for the colour to dry; each housewife with a copy of a thick glossy magazine, each husband with a damned mobile phone that just wouldn’t ring. And then there’s me, who is a virgin to all of this, who shudders when a stranger touches her shoulders, who giggles when a nice lady wipes her ears with a big towel, who sneezes when her hair is being blow-dried by a careless hair-maestro, who reads Democracy in America while her hair is being permed.
On my trip to Prague two years ago I fell in love with the Czech women who seemed untouched by the nasty hand of capitalism and were so pure and innocent it’d made me feel nostalgic. They had rosy cheeks, healthy shiny smiles, robust bosoms and beautiful, wide hips. They were absolutely beautiful; beautiful in their healthy spirit and mind. I like to think I was like that too before this visit to a hair dresser’s. Alas, I yielded to the temptations of this corrupt society! Now look what’s become of me!