By Piyali Bhattacharya

Since I hit puberty, my hair has been falling out. There’s no explanation why. There was no indication I wouldn’t grow up to have a thick braid when I was a girl. But there’s no denying it. I do not have famous Sharmila Tagore hair. For years I watched as my long strands swirled down the drain during my showers and tangled tightly into my hairbrushes while blow-drying. Luckily, I had incredibly thick hair as a child, so I’m not left with nothing now. Still, hair (and lack thereof) has always been something of a discussion point among the women in my family.

So it’s got me thinking: what is it with South Asian women and the idea of “Lambe, Ghane Baal?” I suppose it’s true that there’s isn’t a female in the world who wouldn’t want “Long, Thick Hair.” But still, there seems to be a particular fascination in the Desi community with women having cascading tresses that they might twist into a sexy bun. I grew up watching ads for Indian shampoos promising gorgeous texture and length. They assured me that no matter what my figure, smoothing out my sari and letting down my long, thick hair after a tough day in the kitchen would immediately draw my husband to me. These images were only reinforced by Bollywood heroines whose khopas1 were piled high atop their heads, often resembling beehives.

And let’s not forget the Golden Rule: You don’t have good Desi hair if it’s not straight as a pin. All you ladies with gorgeous curls, thick as they may be: I’m sorry, but you might as well hail from a different continent. According to the rulebook for How To Be A Good South Asian Woman, your lambe, ghane baal should be able to be used as a tape measure. Mine, unfortunately, hardly brushes my shoulders (this after a period of having it shorn to shreds), and takes on ungovernable waves if I let it air-dry.

An aunty once told me that all Bengali girls have three traits: they can sing, they can dance, and they have gorgeous hair. Does it count if I’ve got two out of three? Or do I not make it to the Jamini Roy definition of a Bengali woman (http://images.artnet.com/artwork_images_1058_330808_jamini-roy.jpg) if I can’t wrap my hair around my waist?

When I was in college, I went through a phase where my hair was shorter than most of the boys I knew. This did not, I should mention, mean that my look wasn’t feminine. Sometimes I think I’d like to go back to that style. But I can’t deny the fact that when my hair was that short, my identity as a South Asian woman was consistently questioned. People would look at me and immediately assume that I was some sort of “other.” And I suppose that’s just fine. In my own mind, I “other” myself constantly. But, while getting ready for my upcoming wedding, I’ve been flipping through Desi bridal magazines and sifting through pictures of my parents’ wedding, and it has made me subconsciously feel that if I can’t make an adequate khopa at my own shaadi, maybe I won’t be a “real” Indian bride?

This, of course, has thrown me down a rabbit hole of self-reflection and navel gazing. All these questions suddenly fog the windows of my clichéd identity crisis: What does it mean to be a “real” Indian bride? Is it something that I want to be anyway? What does having long, black hair have to do with being South Asian at all?

I won’t spend too much time boring you with the answers to these queries, but I will tell you that while I may have questions about what the length and thickness of my hair says about my identity, I’m pretty sure it won’t be too long before I chop the whole crop off all over again.

1 Khopa is the Bengali word for a bun.

About the author:
Piyali Bhattacharya is an American-born Desi writer who contributes pieces about South Asian American Feminisms to EGO every fortnight. Please send comments to her at EGOfemme@egothemag.com or to EGO at info@egothemag.com