A few months ago, my husband announced that we would be soon shifting to Johannesburg. Ahem, ahem. “Johannesburg- as in the one in South Africa?” I asked. “Yes that’s right”, he said. “How many more Johannesburg’s do you know of?” Well, he did have a point there!
So began the planning for the great shift- not only across countries, across continents, across the oceans but also across the hemispheres. And I did the first thing that one needs to do whilst preparing for such a huge shift- go to www.wikipedia.com and read about Johannesburg, South Africa starting from which exact position in the globe it occupies to the crime and the wildlife that abounds this beautiful place in equal measures.
Soon, armed with my precious Indian possessions- rice and pulses, assorted exotic masalas that I was not too sure even existed earlier, beds with bed boxes and coir foam mattresses, mom made pickles, Rajasthani puppets, Ganesha statues, Buddha masks, bandhej dupattas, Old Monk rum for the husband, we landed in Johannesburg.
Immediately, I was exposed to a whole new world- the world of the EXPAT. Issues that I could never have fathomed had to be dealt with left right and also centre. “Complex issues”- you must be thinking about crime in the city, language, food, our five year old son adjusting to new school, cross cultural alignment- well, those were there, but there were also some much greater challenges.
Let me start with the gravest issue at hand- grooming.
I am an Indian and so are my eyebrows. Period. Just as my very well shaped, thick, Indian eyebrows were about to be waxed into oblivion than I jumped my most spontaneous and high jump ever and ran (well drove- you can’t really run around in Johannesburg without posing a serious threat to all possessions, material or otherwise) all across the city searching for the one parlour that could thread my beloved eyebrows. I had heard of the adage ‘Where there is a will there is a way’ and I definitely found it to be true when I landed in a Pakistani parlour more than 50 kms from my home. The bitter pain of threading was suddenly as sweet as the boondi laddoos that I bought from the nearby sweet shop as a trophy for my ingenuity in discovering the place.
While on the topic of grooming, I must mention the trials and tribulations associated with the first haircut (in Joburg of course) of my 5 year old son. At this age, everything requires urgent attention as everything grows so fast- from height and nails to interests and hobbies. Many cartons were yet unopened, the above mentioned masks and puppets were still in their wrappers , even the DIY book that had to be purchased to teach ourselves how to drill nails so that the masks and puppets could adorn our walls was still not purchased, when I embarked on an adventure that caught me completely unaware. After coaxing, coercing and finally bribing my son to come along for a much needed haircut, we landed in a parlour close to our house only to be told “we do not do white hair”. White hair........well firstly, and thank god for small mercies, he has, at least till now, black hair and jet black may I add with some motherly pride, and secondly, (don’t know what is politically correct to thank or to not thank god for this), we are brown! So where does this whole issue of “white hair” come up from? The woman does not even attempt to lift her heavily mascara-ed eyelashes and drawls nonchalantly, utterly oblivious of my confusion, that white hair means straight hair like the whites have and this parlour only does curly African hair. I thought of asking would they be able to help a brown person, having black hair which was not straight like the whites, but curly like the Africans but thankfully refrained, stopped undoubtedly by the eyelashes.
We drove to another parlour and were given an appointment for 3 p.m. six days later. We drove to another parlour where you had to be of certain age (read adult and we are still talking about a clean, harmless haircut and that too of straight hair) to be able to get a haircut as they did not do children, thank heavens for that! Finally I managed to get his haircut, in of all places, a rock cum biker den parlour, with black walls, neon lights, Harley Davidson, Guns and Roses and Nirvana posters, from a black leather and black nail polish wearing hairdresser with her eyebrow and tongue pierced talking nineteen to the dozen about- take a guess- Shah Rukh Khan and Kajol in My Name is Khan! I was floored and my son came out with gel in his newly spiked hair.
Well, with eyebrows threaded and hair trimmed, a potentially unkempt new beginning was starting to look pretty well groomed. And at the end of this rigmarole, I wonder if I should say ‘all’s well that ends well’ or 'all's well that begins well”. Maybe I'll just stay true to Bollywood and say, “Aall Eej Well”. Cheers!
