Read Online Just the Way You Are by Sanjeev Ranjan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sanjeev Ranjan
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ice and for a second I thought that men could be beautiful too. Suddenly I became self-conscious and tilted my head to steal a glance at my own face in the mirror on the side. It was the same boring face, with a lopsided arc for a mouth. I looked dark, with the soot of all of Delhi pasted on my skin. And on top of that, the blackheads on and around my nose made me look pitiable in my own eyes. Seriously, I needed a big makeover. Big with a capital ‘B’. Gaurav was right. Why would girls like me, of all people, when there are such studs flocking around the city wearing ripped T-shirts and zooming off on bikes. I had bad inferiority complex and was sulking.
I was called after about ten minutes more. I went inside. It was a huge chamber with life-sized mirrors on the walls. The guy who had called me in gestured for me to sit on a large chair. I could almost sink into it and never come out. He started with tying a band on my forehead and pulled it tight. I thought I would crack my neck. But then I saw almost everyone—men and women alike—had similar bandanas tied around their heads. It was so that the cream from the facial would not seep into the hair. He took a thick dab of L’Oreal facial cream in his palms and applied it gently on my face. In the mirror in front of me I could see girls being given similar massages. I had the urge to get up from my seat and join the masseur as his assistant. At least that way I could strike up a conversation with one of the girls. But after a moment I felt like a desperate fool. As if someone had inflated a balloon to its full size and then left its mouth open to a miserable puncture. After some time he stopped the rotating movements of his hands on my face and I could instead feel a vibrating corrugated plate on my cheeks making a strange buzzing sound. It felt as if little insects were nibbling at my skin. I now understood the secret of beauty for men and women alike. It was far more important to
look
beautiful than to
be
beautiful.
After the facial was done, another guy, this time with a silky black apron tied around his waist, came and held my head in the the crook of his arm. He held my chin and cradled it in a different direction to see how ‘hairy’ I was, at least that is what I assumed then. And then gave a click of the tongue as if struck with the knowledge of the secret formula with which he could change me into Adonis overnight. He brought an iPad and asked me to flip through the different hairstyles on offer. But I couldn’t decide on what I wanted. All of them looked alien to me. As if any of those hairdos would suit any Tom, Dick, and Harry but when it came to me it would certainly suck. He then took charge with a sardonic smile and started running his fingers along his scissors. I murmured ‘Bhagwan’ under my breath, apprehensive in case the hairstyle went wrong. It took him over forty minutes to ultimately showcase his talent and flaunt it with utter indifference. After all, it was a trick he performed daily. ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘I almost always know how to make a star out of a cucumber.’ ‘What?’ I asked, thinking I had misheard. ‘Never mind,’ he muttered, and glided like a ghost in black into another direction, merging with the crowd of anxious customers. ‘Never mind,’ I repeated to myself and looked into the mirror. A boy came in with a big brush and cleaned all the hair from the piece of silky cloth that still covered my front. He brushed my neck and blasted hot air from a hairdryer onto my face to rid me of the remaining small hairs stuck to me. Only then could I see my face in the mirror. I looked different, there was no doubt about it. I looked perfect. The sides were trimmed with precision and my sideburns gleamed like sharp blades. My face looked longish. I no longer looked like a ‘bhaiya-ji’. I thanked God while I headed to the reception to pay up.
I proudly came out of the inner chamber, looking at the girls and passing
I was called after about ten minutes more. I went inside. It was a huge chamber with life-sized mirrors on the walls. The guy who had called me in gestured for me to sit on a large chair. I could almost sink into it and never come out. He started with tying a band on my forehead and pulled it tight. I thought I would crack my neck. But then I saw almost everyone—men and women alike—had similar bandanas tied around their heads. It was so that the cream from the facial would not seep into the hair. He took a thick dab of L’Oreal facial cream in his palms and applied it gently on my face. In the mirror in front of me I could see girls being given similar massages. I had the urge to get up from my seat and join the masseur as his assistant. At least that way I could strike up a conversation with one of the girls. But after a moment I felt like a desperate fool. As if someone had inflated a balloon to its full size and then left its mouth open to a miserable puncture. After some time he stopped the rotating movements of his hands on my face and I could instead feel a vibrating corrugated plate on my cheeks making a strange buzzing sound. It felt as if little insects were nibbling at my skin. I now understood the secret of beauty for men and women alike. It was far more important to
look
beautiful than to
be
beautiful.
After the facial was done, another guy, this time with a silky black apron tied around his waist, came and held my head in the the crook of his arm. He held my chin and cradled it in a different direction to see how ‘hairy’ I was, at least that is what I assumed then. And then gave a click of the tongue as if struck with the knowledge of the secret formula with which he could change me into Adonis overnight. He brought an iPad and asked me to flip through the different hairstyles on offer. But I couldn’t decide on what I wanted. All of them looked alien to me. As if any of those hairdos would suit any Tom, Dick, and Harry but when it came to me it would certainly suck. He then took charge with a sardonic smile and started running his fingers along his scissors. I murmured ‘Bhagwan’ under my breath, apprehensive in case the hairstyle went wrong. It took him over forty minutes to ultimately showcase his talent and flaunt it with utter indifference. After all, it was a trick he performed daily. ‘There you go,’ he said. ‘I almost always know how to make a star out of a cucumber.’ ‘What?’ I asked, thinking I had misheard. ‘Never mind,’ he muttered, and glided like a ghost in black into another direction, merging with the crowd of anxious customers. ‘Never mind,’ I repeated to myself and looked into the mirror. A boy came in with a big brush and cleaned all the hair from the piece of silky cloth that still covered my front. He brushed my neck and blasted hot air from a hairdryer onto my face to rid me of the remaining small hairs stuck to me. Only then could I see my face in the mirror. I looked different, there was no doubt about it. I looked perfect. The sides were trimmed with precision and my sideburns gleamed like sharp blades. My face looked longish. I no longer looked like a ‘bhaiya-ji’. I thanked God while I headed to the reception to pay up.
I proudly came out of the inner chamber, looking at the girls and passing
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