Why colouring one’s hair is more than just being platinum blonde

I was finally living a dream, doing something daring, out of the ordinary, what society might label too queer

Having painted my hair white, I have finally found my voice. (Credit: Suvir Saran)

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Why would a grown man, a consummate professional, a restless, creative culinarian, an avid reader, a hungry gourmand, a busy mentor to several young adults, a 24/7 bathroom singer, and a daydreamer with boundless vision torment himself by bleaching his hair? Why would someone, anyone, put themselves through an ordeal as cumbersome, painful, and challenging as stripping dark-dark hair down to platinum blonde? What makes someone impossible to cage in even the freest of spaces willingly surrender to a six- plus-hour process that seems interminable?

I was both scared and excited as I rode with my friend Ravi Roy to the Neu Hair Salon in Vasant Vihar. Ravi was at ease, as he was getting his hair and beard trimmed, a rather routine happenstance, even if at a new salon. I, on the other hand, was grappling with a gazillion questions a minute, or so it seemed. I questioned my mind, my sanity, my sensibilities, my manhood, my place in this world, my age, and my entire being. I was nervous but also exhilarated by the opportunity that lay ahead of me. A circumstance, an advancement, a progress, a refreshment, a chance to grow, to feel new, to fulfill old dreams. A flood of emotions didn’t answer my questions but did distract me from having to answer the issues being raised by my brain. The ride, as I summoned the courage to dye my hair white, made for the longest 20 minutes I have lived in my 50-plus years. Each minute was one of intense reflection and introspection. Each 60-second cycle brought with it as many nerve-racking observations as it did hopeful and exciting thoughts of the adventures I might encounter post-treatment.

So, I focused on my yearning and the positives that I had connected with it. I remained steadfast about giving Neu Salon that chance to help me fulfill a dream and to indulge in a fantasy I had long harbored. As I arrived at the salon, I heard in my head the voice of my parents, urging me to give my best to every moment, to consider my choices intelligently, and to be daring in what I choose and how I do things, and do so in a manner that harms no one, brings me joy and comfort, and takes me further ahead in the journey of my life and the dreams and goals I have set for myself and which make me proud. As a six-year-old boy I used to watch my Mom, who was in her early 30s, be the lone woman in her friend circle who had salt-and-pepper hair. I loved the confidence and comfort with which she carried herself and lived this part of her life on her own terms. Peer pressure dictated that she dye her hair, but Mom never entertained that thought, or at least openly around us kids. The youngest of my siblings, I found myself being my mum’s shadow, and I fancied myself her friend, even if only in my head. Her dramatic black-and-white hair that seemed painted with great care was nothing short of incredible to my young eyes, and from that time on I imagined myself with white hair like my mother.

I had been warned that it would take anywhere between four to seven hours to achieve the colour I wanted. I was told that it would hurt and test my patience. I was ready for a bumpy ride, but what I experienced was a test of endurance like I have never had before. By the end of the last round of bleaching, I paced the length of the salon, grinding my teeth to absorb the pain. Those last 33 minutes were the most agonising and trying moments of my life — and that includes multiple surgeries and terrific COVID pain.

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There were many moments within that half hour that I wanted to call a halt to this madness, go back to my natural mahogany brown, and carry on living as I had until that moment. But then, as the colourists gave me my final rinse and rid me of all traces of the bleach, as the hair stylist gave me a final blow dry and set my hair most dramatically, I saw in the mirror a face rather closely fashioned after the woman I have always admired for being the bravest and most graceful human being on this planet. I was finally living a dream. I was doing something daring, feeling big and bold enough to take a risk, to be edgy, and to do what is out of the ordinary, what society might label too outlandish or too queer. And now, having gone through six-plus torturous hours of making a dream become a reality, I find myself no less a man, no less human, and certainly a richer and more fulfilled version of myself. I now understand better why people might colour their hair in ways most unexpected, might perm or straighten their hair, might have dreadlocks or extensions, might shave their hair entirely, or style it in ways others might find unnatural or wrong.

They are the reason I am sharing this story with you. There will be people who don’t understand why I have chosen to dye my hair white. They will judge me without knowing or caring to know that I have finally realised a dream I have dreamt of four decades and that this act of colouring my hair is an affirmation of myself and my identity. I am grateful to be proud of my identity, and with that, my place in this world. My parents, my siblings, their spouses and my nephew, my friends and colleagues, my clients – have all shown me respect for being me and have never said or done anything even remotely hateful. On the contrary, these people have given me every bit of leeway to be myself. My good luck in life, or at least my easier struggle than what most must go through, has me always thinking about being the voice of those who are unable to speak up and speak out, challenging myself to be more vocal about issues — like hairstyles that flout convention—that others cannot deal with, let alone tackle in open public.

The first thing my mother said when she saw my white hair was, “Why did you do this? Don’t you realise that you’ll stand out even more than you did before?” I was struck silent; the distance the phone couldn’t cover had me at a loss for words. What I wanted to tell the woman I had emulated by bleaching my hair was that 20 years later than her, at age 50, I had finally found the courage to try something I really wanted to do. She in her 30s was braver than I was in my 30s and 40s. Having painted my hair white, I have finally found my voice, my freedom, and my prouder connection to my future. And why shouldn’t we stand out? We only have one life to live. Live, live full, live proud!