My hair has always been a source of disappointment. Hairdressers call it "dirty blonde". My mum calls it "rich mouse". I take offence to this. Somebody once pointed out to me that at least it wasn't "poor mouse".
All in all, I dislike my hair.
There is a design by Edward Monkton of a girl with straight hair and with one random curly bit that doesn't want to be a hair, it wants to be a dragon.This is a most accurate representation of my hair. The top is straight, the underneath has a random ringlet - it is neither stylish, nor that kind of surfer, cant find my hairbrushy type look. Humidity causes it to become even more knotty - a sort of Monica Geller in Barbados look. It is, quite frankly, a mess.
When I was little, my mum always liked me and my sister to have short hair. Mine was a little white blonde bob and Victoria's was a most definite perm - raisin-esque if you will. When I was 13 I decided to be all edgy and cut it all off in a gamine type fashion. At this point, I was at that teenage stage, where I had a train-track brace and although I was blessed with a non-spotty face, I certainly did not look good.
In conclusion, having left home, I have rebelled. My hair is longer than it has ever been. Long enough to swish in a loreal type fashion and long enough to get a hair brush stuck in every morning.
This all has a point.
Anybody who has ever been far east will know that natives (usually little kids) are fascinated by Westerners. Our guide explained to us from the off that quite a lot of the people in the places we were visiting might not have necessarily seen Westerners before. So, it doesn't help that not only am I whiter than white, but my hair is blonde (helped along by a little highlight now and then).
I have always wanted to be famous. In India, I am. For my hair.
It all started on day one.
Some little girls approached and asked if they could have our 'snap'. Naturally, I was flattered. Families surrounded us with their children, we had photos with people's wives and kids. At the Taj Mahal, we had a photo with a family of 20 in beautiful coloured saris and the old women stroked our hair.
By the 25th person who asked, my smile had faded to a Chandler-type grimace. Some people rudely took photos without asking. Furthermore, Faye had pointed out that the greasy teenage boys who were taking pictures on their phone, were probably interested for other purposes than the family photo album.
We got to India Gate in Delhi and a man asked if he could take our snap. It was my turn to snap. NO. "What happened?" he asked bewildered.
What happened to what?! Our deep relationship with this random stranger? Had we lead him on by completely ignoring him?
It became a source of irritation, to the point where two boys at Humayun's tomb asked for a photo and we said 'NO THANK YOU' and then realised that the poor fellows wanted one of us to take their photo outside the famous monument. Sheepish, we took the snap.
I make it sound all very negative. It wasn't. There was much hilarity. Furthermore, now I'm home, I am a bit miffed that nobody has stopped me yet to ask for a photo.
I do wonder what these people will do with these photos. Are we on their mantlepieces? Are we framed and stuck on the wall? Will these people show the photos of the day they met the 'gora' (white person) to their friends and relations?
All in all, it doesn't matter too much.
In India, I am legend.
Unless they thought I was Linda Barker. In which case, I am mortified.
All in all, I dislike my hair.
There is a design by Edward Monkton of a girl with straight hair and with one random curly bit that doesn't want to be a hair, it wants to be a dragon.This is a most accurate representation of my hair. The top is straight, the underneath has a random ringlet - it is neither stylish, nor that kind of surfer, cant find my hairbrushy type look. Humidity causes it to become even more knotty - a sort of Monica Geller in Barbados look. It is, quite frankly, a mess.
When I was little, my mum always liked me and my sister to have short hair. Mine was a little white blonde bob and Victoria's was a most definite perm - raisin-esque if you will. When I was 13 I decided to be all edgy and cut it all off in a gamine type fashion. At this point, I was at that teenage stage, where I had a train-track brace and although I was blessed with a non-spotty face, I certainly did not look good.
In conclusion, having left home, I have rebelled. My hair is longer than it has ever been. Long enough to swish in a loreal type fashion and long enough to get a hair brush stuck in every morning.
This all has a point.
Anybody who has ever been far east will know that natives (usually little kids) are fascinated by Westerners. Our guide explained to us from the off that quite a lot of the people in the places we were visiting might not have necessarily seen Westerners before. So, it doesn't help that not only am I whiter than white, but my hair is blonde (helped along by a little highlight now and then).
I have always wanted to be famous. In India, I am. For my hair.
It all started on day one.
Some little girls approached and asked if they could have our 'snap'. Naturally, I was flattered. Families surrounded us with their children, we had photos with people's wives and kids. At the Taj Mahal, we had a photo with a family of 20 in beautiful coloured saris and the old women stroked our hair.
By the 25th person who asked, my smile had faded to a Chandler-type grimace. Some people rudely took photos without asking. Furthermore, Faye had pointed out that the greasy teenage boys who were taking pictures on their phone, were probably interested for other purposes than the family photo album.
We got to India Gate in Delhi and a man asked if he could take our snap. It was my turn to snap. NO. "What happened?" he asked bewildered.
What happened to what?! Our deep relationship with this random stranger? Had we lead him on by completely ignoring him?
It became a source of irritation, to the point where two boys at Humayun's tomb asked for a photo and we said 'NO THANK YOU' and then realised that the poor fellows wanted one of us to take their photo outside the famous monument. Sheepish, we took the snap.
I make it sound all very negative. It wasn't. There was much hilarity. Furthermore, now I'm home, I am a bit miffed that nobody has stopped me yet to ask for a photo.
I do wonder what these people will do with these photos. Are we on their mantlepieces? Are we framed and stuck on the wall? Will these people show the photos of the day they met the 'gora' (white person) to their friends and relations?
All in all, it doesn't matter too much.
In India, I am legend.
Unless they thought I was Linda Barker. In which case, I am mortified.
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