These days, every rare (and I mean rare) trip to the beauty salon leaves me feeling worse than before. It’s supposed to be a temple of relaxation, but somehow, I end up exiting the premises with a lighter wallet, a heavier heart, and an existential crisis about my crow’s feet that, apparently, have been holding annual general meetings on my face while I wasn’t looking.
I miss the good old days of Chinese beauty parlors in Calcutta, where skilled, no-nonsense women worked magic on your hair without making you feel like a malnourished, aging pigeon in dire need of a complete genetic overhaul. They snipped, massaged, and pampered, leaving you looking like a shampoo commercial—minus the pretentious tossing of hair. The facials were soothing, the pedicures were divine, and nobody tried to sell you an entire year’s worth of questionable chemical treatments in the name of “self-care.”
Now? The moment you sit down, they “scan” you like airport security.
“Ma’am, your hair is so dry, so thin, so lifeless. You know, we have this amazing package…”
Oh, do you now? And do you also have a magic wand that will erase the trauma of this conversation?
“Your skin is dull, your pores are large, and you should try our gold-infused, unicorn-blessed, age-defying facial. We’ll give you 20% off.”
How generous! First, you tell me I look like an aging fruit that’s been left out in the sun too long, and then you offer me a discount for my suffering? Truly, capitalism at its finest.
What happened to the simple joys of a haircut? The comforting silence of a hair oil massage? The unspoken trust between customer and beautician? Now, it’s a hustle. They sell beauty like a stockbroker on Wall Street, aggressive, relentless, and with a slight air of desperation. The only difference? The stock market crashes; my self-esteem does not need to.
Look, I get it. Beauty is a business. But must it be so predatory? Must every salon visit feel like an undercover operation where I must navigate sales pitches with the stealth of a ninja? My forehead wrinkles are a testament to my thoughts, my laughter, my life experiences. Why must I erase them in favour of looking like a Botoxed porcelain doll?
Some people call me a commie because I don’t believe in the gospel of beauty packages and I am still in awe of the “Chinese” beauticians of yore. But honestly, I just believe in basic human decency. Sell your services, sure, but do it without shoving insecurity down my throat like a mother force-feeding her child the last bite of an oversized paratha.
Let me tell you about the “Undercover Bald Spot Incident”.
I once went for a simple trim, only to have the hairdresser inspect my scalp like an archaeologist unearthing ancient ruins. “Oh ma’am, there’s a tiny bald spot here,” she said, with the glee of someone discovering a secret chamber in the pyramids. Before I could blink, she had me signed up for a “hair regrowth therapy package” that cost more than my monthly grocery bill.
Another episode in the beauty department of my life was the great “Eyebrow Betrayal”.
“Just a little clean-up,” I had said. The beautician nodded sagely, as if accepting a noble quest. Five minutes later, I had eyebrows so thin they could’ve been mistaken for missing person posters. “Very modern look, ma’am!” she chirped. Modern? I looked like a permanently surprised cartoon character.
The ‘Gold Facial’ fiasco was another instance that left me traumatized.
“Trust me, this will make you glow like the moon,” she promised. What she didn’t mention was that the moon would be blotchy, burning, and in desperate need of ice packs for the next two days. By the time I recovered, I had learned a valuable lesson: If a facial costs more than a second-hand car, it’s probably too effective.
Then there was the ‘Lipstick Shade Debacle’.
“Try this shade, ma’am. It will make you look younger.” I did. It was neon orange. I did not look younger. I looked like a traffic cone that had lost its way.
Moral of the story? The beauty industry will always find a way to convince you that you need more. More products, more treatments, more insecurities. But at the end of the day, the best beauty secret remains the same: a little confidence, a lot of humour, and the ability to say, “No, I do not need that anti-aging snail slime serum, thank you very much.”
If this is the future of beauty, I’d rather age like fine wine—uncorked, slightly unpredictable, and thoroughly enjoyable. And if my crow’s feet must stay, they shall stay with dignity, flapping proudly in the winds of my well-earned wisdom. Cheers to that!
Disclaimer
Views expressed above are the author’s own.
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