“Why do Sikh girls violate themselves by cutting their hair?” he asks.
I hear the anguish in his voice.
I see the pain in his eyes.
I say nothing. There is nothing I can say.
I, too, was one of those girls.
Seems like a lifetime ago and yet not so.
In my late teens, I began trimming my hair to take care of the split ends. Or so I said.
Then a few inches came off, and another few inches as time went by.
To answer this question: Did I feel violated?
No. On the contrary, I felt liberated.
Foolish thinking but a prerogative of youth.
I stopped trimming my hair.
I don’t know why. But I did.
I didn’t dwell on it.
The hair was just there.
Sabad entered my life.
The hair that was just there—it became my jewel.
I nurtured it. I honored it.
Because I fell in love with Sabad.
And, when one is in love, one yearns to be drenched in the color of one’s love.
My love affair continues.
My hair grows.
The hair that was once black is now turning silver.
For someone who hated the mirror, I find myself gazing at it every morning and rejoicing. My hair has become a work of art. And I am loving this phase.
And every night, before I go to bed, I brush my long tresses and am filled with gratitude. How lucky can I be?
It’s been quite the journey.
And the journey continues.
Will you, my dearest friend, think less of me, or will you understand?
That I changed only because I fell in love.
Nothing more, nothing less.