The Resurrection of hair

Whatever it might be, I thought, slightly irritated for having liked it in the first place, this does not resemble a Matisse corpulence spread on thick red- as Byatt suggested. It's probably the system of the studio in the 1900s. C was lean and had a slow languor about his movements; actually I doubt if I'd have ever written this sentence if I wasn't reading too much of Alan Hollinghurst. He parked the comb on a bunch of hair and snipped around my ears with a measured belief of being able to find his way through this dense and unyielding foliage. A heady sound of snipping, the rustle of hair and the mirror did a lot of tricks with the lady sitting next to me. The spell was cast, but I could hear it shatter suddenly with loud, bad radio music and Pujo-gossip. (A sudden moment of Matisse- as I saw her throat expand terribly up to her nose, and explode in tiny collections of redbluegolden hair). C started talking with the lady next to me. Pandal hopping I see? No, of course not!- a gush, a short breathlessness- pandal hopping? not for me. The little one is sleeping at home- I thought I'd just pop in for a little facial... Oh I see! In the evening I suppose, then? No, maybe, It depends on Him, na? He says he's got some work... Oh that's sad, that's not fair!... Well, I've just got into the new Suchitra Bhattacharya novel- I'll probably read that and maybe watch- they're going to show Dosar this evening so... Oh right... snip, snip. In this ridiculous movie I saw, I butted into their conversation, though only in my imagination, this guy claims he can hear what people think when he's giving them haircuts. Can you? I mean, they show people like Pooja Bhatt and Koel Purie so I was supposing there's a catch- there, like a metaphor for page 3 clairvoyance or something, but let's at the larger thing- No, C replied, in his measured, contemplative manner. No, I can't really hear you. It's probably the scissors, isn't it? It's true, I thought to myself. He was being especially harsh on my hair and ears. His snips were slowly getting ferocious, tugging sharply and the sudden brushes against my ears were even worse- like the continued licking of an impatient flame. Er... I said; to myself, almost in tears. Sniff... What was that? Do you need a trimming of the beard as well? No, thanks- just the hair, I said, coldly.

In a bookshop, there generally is not much space to er... manoeuvre around, I said. But what about danger jackets? she asked. What is that? Oh, when there's increased footfall, you know- during the Pujos or some such festival? Yes, that is true- but I cannot imagine too many people wandering into the African Writer's section during Pujos for some reason, you know? A tremulous laugh as she threw back her hair. It was long, dark and the light seemed to shiver on its surface. Stop staring at my hair! Sorry, but it's pretty good and also, nice (the right word is always shelved away on these occasions). Oh, thanks. But I was very surprised, as I was saying, to find Bengalis here... you must come to my exhibition. I know a bit about photography as well, I volunteered.

Ten minutes later, as she walked away, I saw a strand of hair, long and frail perched quietly on the spine of a book that dealt with anarchy.