Chapter 7: The Ladies Saloon Hair color
The Local Ladies’ Parlour smelled of ammonia, cheap rose perfume, and impending change. Priya sat stiffly in the padded vinyl chair, a black cape fastened tight around her neck. Her reflection in the large, slightly speckled mirror looked familiar and alien at once. The woman staring back had deep worry lines fanning from her eyes and streaks of silver threading through her dark hair like frost on a windowpane.
It was Thursday. Two days since she’d made the offer. Two days of a strange, humming quiet in the apartment. Dev had been pensive, but softer around the edges. He’d brought her a single white lily, placed it in a vase on the dining table without explanation. They hadn’t discussed the transfer again, but the idea lived with them now, a third presence in the rooms, shifting the atmosphere.
“Thinking of a change, Auntie?” the stylist, a young woman named Ritu with impossibly sharp eyeliner, had asked, fingers already sifting through Priya’s hair.
The word ‘Auntie’ had landed with its usual soft thud. A title of respect, and also of category. She was in the ‘Auntie’ bracket. The mother bracket. The window for anything else had presumably closed a decade ago.
“Just a touch-up,” Priya had said, her voice sounding small under the hum of hairdryers and the gossip from two elderly women under helmet-style dryers nearby. “The usual black.”
But as Ritu mixed the dye, the slick chemical smell biting the air, Priya’s eyes kept catching on the shade chart pinned to the wall. There was a spectrum. Jet Black. Espresso. Dark Chocolate. Even a shade called ‘Midnight Bloom’.
Her heart did a slow, clumsy roll in her chest. It was a ridiculous thought. Vanity, of the most transparent kind. And yet.
The offer to Dev wasn’t just about his future. It was an unspoken blueprint for her own. If he came home, their life would be this, permanently. The two of them. A closed loop. She would be mother, chef, tutor, comforter. Always. It was a role she had chosen, had cherished. But in the quiet after he’d gone to bed last night, the loneliness had felt particularly thick, more substance than shadow. She had looked at the family photos and seen not just the past, but the future. Herself, aging in these rooms. Him, aging beside her. A beautiful, devoted tragedy.
“Ritu,” she heard herself say. The girl paused, brush in hand. “Not the jet black. The… the honey blonde. And… can you do something about these?” She touched her temple, where the grey was most pronounced.
Ritu’s professionally placid face showed a flicker of surprise, then a swift, approving smile. “Of course, Auntie. Good choice. Warmer. More youthful.”
Youthful. The word fizzed in Priya’s ears, both thrilling and shaming her. She wasn’t trying to be a girl. She just wanted… to not feel invisible. To look in the mirror and see someone who still had a ‘before’ and ‘after’, not just a long, continuous ‘during’.
The process was intimate and oddly clinical. The cold, wet paste on her scalp, the cling of foil strips. The elderly women’s conversation washed over her, talk of daughters-in-law and property disputes. She closed her eyes. The chemical tang was sharp, the promise of transformation. She thought of Dev’s thin face, his eyes holding that new, fragile hope. She was building a lifeboat for him. Maybe she could sand down its edges, make it something slightly beautiful to look at, too.
After the rinse, the haircut—just a trim, but layers, Ritu insisted, for volume—came the extended negotiation.
“Your skin is good, Auntie, but dehydrated,” Ritu said, leaning close, her critical gaze a professional appraisal. “Very tired. We have a facial. Botanical. No harsh chemicals. You will feel like a new woman.”
Priya almost refused. It felt like a step too far, an admission of a need she couldn’t name. But the word ‘tired’ had hooked into her. She was tired. She was so tired of being strong, of being the anchor. For one hour, she could let someone else take over. She nodded, her throat tight.
The facial was a blur of steam and muted lighting, gentle hands massaging creams into her skin. She floated in a sensory-deprived state, the gossip and clatter of the main room muffled. Here, in the dim treatment room, she was not Priya Sharma, mother and widow. She was a client. A body to be tended. It was a profound, simple relief.
When it was all over, Ritu led her back to the main chair. “Okay, Auntie. Ready?”
Priya braced herself. The cape was removed. Ritu spun the chair gently toward the mirror.
For a second, she didn’t recognize herself. The grey was gone, replaced by a rich, deep brown that held the light, with subtle, warmer tones around her face. It wasn’t the harsh black of her youth, nor the faded, apologetic colour she’d had. It was something else. Sophisticated. Intentional. The layers framed her face, softening the angles of her jaw. Her skin, plumped and glowing from the facial, looked smoother, the shadows under her eyes less pronounced.
She looked… refreshed. Vital. Like a version of herself from a photo taken five, maybe seven years ago. Not a girl. But a woman who had taken an afternoon for herself.
“See?” Ritu beamed, her hands on Priya’s shoulders in the mirror. “I told you. Beautiful.”
Priya’s smile trembled. It was beautiful. And it felt like a secret. A small, personal rebellion against the march of time and the rigid box of her identity.
She paid too much money for a small paper bag of products—a serum, a moisturizer—and stepped out onto the street. The late afternoon light felt different, sharper. The breeze on her neck, where the hair was now shorter, was a novel sensation. She felt a fragile, unfamiliar sparkle in her veins. It was the ghost of confidence.
She walked home, her steps lighter. She imagined Dev’s face. He would notice. He always noticed her. He’d say something sweet, exaggerating the effect, making her feel seen. The thought warmed her more than the sun.
She let herself into the quiet apartment. The lily on the table was still fresh. She put the bag of products in her bedroom, then went to the kitchen to start the saag. As she washed the spinach, she caught her reflection in the dark window over the sink. A woman with beautiful, dark hair, working in her kitchen. The image was both comforting and strangely disjointed.
She heard his key in the lock. Her breath hitched, just slightly. She dried her hands, not turning around, letting him have the moment.
The door closed. His footsteps paused.
“Ma?”
She turned, leaning against the counter, trying for nonchalance. “Hmm?”
Dev stood frozen in the doorway of the kitchen, his backpack dangling from one hand. His eyes widened, then did a slow, thorough scan of her—the hair, her face. The shock on his face was pure, unfiltered. It wasn’t just the polite admiration she’d expected. It was something deeper, more arresting. A jolt.
“You… you look…” He stumbled, his words tangling. He blinked, as if clearing a vision. “Your hair.”
“Just a touch-up,” she said, the lie effortless, her cheeks growing warm under his stare.
“It’s different.” He took a step closer, his gaze fixed on her. The intensity of it was more than she’d bargained for. It was the way a man might look at a woman across a crowded room, trying to place her. There was no ‘Auntie’ in that look. There was a raw, bewildered appraisal that stripped years away in an instant. “You look… incredible.”
The word hung in the space between them, charged and too big for the kitchen.
She laughed, a nervous flutter. “Oh, stop. It’s just hair. Dinner’s in twenty.”
He didn’t move. He just kept looking, a faint, confused smile on his lips, as if solving a puzzle. The silence stretched, filled with the hum of the refrigerator and the drum of her own heart.
Finally, he nodded slowly, turning to go to his room. “Okay. Yeah. I’ll… I’ll just get changed.”
He left her there. Priya turned back to the sink, her hands trembling slightly as she picked up a bunch of spinach. The reflection in the window smiled back at her, young and unknown. She felt a rush of something potent—validation, power, fear. She had wanted to feel seen.
Now, she wondered exactly what it was he had seen.