A Piercing and Musings

At an age when most male Engineers hunt women in clubs and cram for the GMAT in order to make it to the Ivy League business schools, I seem to be caught in what can only be termed as a late liberating explosion. Most men grow their hair and explore surrealistic poetry in college, but I was too busy trying to graduate too quickly, maybe for my own good. The semesters flew by too quickly for me to stop and gaze at the birds and think about their journeys and destinations.

The hair's longer now than it has ever been for maybe twenty years now (there is photographic evidence of a pony tailed young me trying to stimulate some inactive big hairy teddy bear). Mind you, this post is in no way an advertisement for the upcoming Rambo movie, but I can't help but envy Stallone for his equine dark mane from the 80's. Sources claim that he copied his from Che's, but since he was a Badass All American hero kicking Communist derrieres through Vietnamese humidity and Afghani dryness, this copyright infringement had to be hushed up. If all the different hairstyles under the Sun, were on display in Walmart in some parallel universe (then the Sun would have to be replaced by the central star of that universe, of course), I would undoubtedly squeal like a little girl and pick Rambo's hair.

Why the long hair, you ask me? I can assure you it has nothing to do with any fascination I harbor for Rockstar looks. Nowadays, I have started believing that cutting your hair is going against nature's order. Of course you are going to say that I should do away with shaving as well in light of that argument, but facial hair makes me look older (and wiser?) than I am, which is against the natural order of things. Yesterday at some point during silence filled rides, my glances at the W's rear view mirror told me that what lacked the visage was a little metal transparent moon peeking out from within the Ramboan locks. A full circle that represents life in totality with me only on the cusp of it all (hopefully).

So, I went and did it, or rather got it done. Trying not to betray my emotions to the jewelery store salesman, I asked him as matter of factly as I could whether the piercing would hurt. Wary of any lawsuits I might be planning in case my experience turned out any way other than exactly his prediction, he seesawed his right palm. I debated mentally for a minute and then with an exasperated 'Bhat the haell!' asked him to drill the hole. He then explained that I needed to wear a stud for a minimum of two weeks before I could wear the little moon, since the gun would drill the shiny substitute into the vicinity of where my right right sideburn ended. So, I had to choose the least bling of them all. This one isn't completely gold, nor is it completely silver, but it twinkles under the Californian sun.

If you are a visual person, please consider the following lines in slow motion punctuated by shots of me shaking my hirsute head a la Bachhan in Hum. I closed my eyes in anticipation of the sweet pain. After what seemed like very long four or five seconds, I heard a gunshot. Granted this was only eleven in the morning, but I wasn't in a very safe neighborhood. I opened my eyes to make sure the jeweler's safe was err, safe. Then it came, as if meekly ushered in by the bang, and lingered strongly for a couple of seconds before rushing into the background. And just like that, I was, I mean had, a stud. I had now officially joined the exclusive club of men whose smile is matched by the brilliance of their ear pierce, and the even more exclusive one of Desi men who are pierced.