To get, Or not to get?

I am not a decisive person. The kind that lets the tailor have a field day with styling my salwar kameezes. You do a good job, I prod the tailor encouragingly, you decide. Any style is fine. You know my taste. But I will reserve an entirely separate post to give you an insight into how much I could complain, crib and possibly even cry when I'm not sure if it has turned out so good.

One of those impending undecided-ness pertains to a matter of the head -a haircut.  What? Bad, bad humour? Well, that's what you get after six months of not having had a single blissful eight hour long continuous sleep. Am I complaining? You bet, the hell I am.

 When I was a child, my hair NEVER grew, and I was always jealous of those girls with long plaits and ribbons. During my pregnancy, my hair grew, but I was tired and so washed out ALL the time that I was never left with enough energy to muster in order to be able to get me to a salon, smile and politely give instructions to the hair dresser. (Of course my main concern was, what if I would have to retch in the middle of the job, given my tendency to rush to the toilet to vomit my stomach out with the slightest of strong smells or odours. Beauty parlours, all of them irrespective of how pricey they are, give off a very strange unpleasant smell, don't they?) 

Alright. Back from digression. The question is: Hair cut or not?  I have a fairly long braid now, and my childhood dream has come true, but sadly, there is usually nothing much the styling people can accomplish with unruly, stubbornly curly, rough hair like mine. Without my having to spend the entire day in front of the mirror, that is.  Gah! What about the baby then? Incidentally, I also happen to be jealous of those with the silky, wavy, bouncy hair which all women, except me, seem to have.Have you seen those women who leave their hair lose on a motorcycle ride? That is a nightmare for me. Worse than having twins, that is.

Plus anyway the little fellow finds it very convenient to clutch on to my tresses when I carry him around. I think he has mistaken it to be the railing on the stair-case. Also, there are times when his little fingers need something for pulling practice or yanking practice, more precisely. Hence there are those moments when he gleefully catches hold of just a couple of strands, and sends me squealing for help. The rescue mission rushes to the spot, sporting grave concern for the well- being of the child, in the precarious company of the notorious mother. What? The rescue team thinks I am teaching the child to shove his newest toy arrivals - namely the Bulty bear, bubbly bee and the scary scorpion, down his baby gullet. Long facedly, they admit, they are trained to handle better situations of emergency than a six month old baby clutching a couple of strands of his mother's hair. Nevertheless, I am half heartedly rescued, and live to type this out. I fear the security squad will not respond another time I yelp in this sort of pain. Will a hair cut help? I muse.