Half-Pint Heroes

~ This post is dedicated to Trish-the-Fish, the most kick-ass three-year-old I have ever known.~

"What are you looking at? You think something's funny here? Huh, do you?" I know what you're thinking, and no, this is not taking place in an Italian restaurant, littered with shady looking violin-cases, tubs of wet cement surrounded by blubbering men rambling incoherently about sleeping with the fishes, and dignified grandpa-types slumped suspiciously over plates of half-eaten cannoli. No, these words aren't even emanating from some low-class goonda, whose exaggerated outer appearance belies a bovinely placid interior. Think smaller, actually a lot smaller. Somewhere in the region from around mid-thigh to the tops of your knees, depending on how tall you are.

These audacious words were actually those of a tiny three-year-old, addressed with the greatest indignation to a grown man 47 years older and probably ten times her size. Sounds ridiculous, right? But then again, you haven't met Trish-the-Fish.

When I first saw Trish-the-Fish, she was just newly arrived from Dubai at her grandparents' home in our native place in India. I was also on a mandatory visit with my family (Trish's grandfather is my father's uncle), and as tends to happen on all coerced visits to elderly family members you see for half an hour once every couple of years, the evening was not going so well. I had already stated my name and what year I was currently studying in school, which was the extent of my expected contribution to these visits year after year. That left the rest of the evening free to sip away heartily at the ever-present cool drinks and to sit back and observe the proceedings that were about to unfold.

Dressed from head to toe in a rosy pink, Dora the Explorer sandals adorning her tiny feet, Trish-the-Fish resembled in appearance the quintessential girly-girl. After a few minutes of watching her, it became evident that she was definitely nobody's little princess, though. Sandwiched on either end of the age spectrum by brothers, Trish-the-Fish proved to be a rambunctious tot who could hold her own among the boys. Already she had managed to become the chief of a group of kids on her street, all of whom she had met mere hours before and many of whom were older, taller and a whole lot bigger. All good and well for a kid who couldn't even tie her own shoelaces, but her piece de resistance was yet to be revealed: Trish-the-Fish had a mouth (and a colossal attitude to match).

I think the first indication of the night that Trish-the-Fish would not become one of those nameless, faceless kids I had met over the course of my lifetime and whose lack of individuality was, to be frank, thoroughly depressing, came when the aforementioned words popped out of her mouth. Hearing her speak those words was incredibly surreal, almost "like firing a fifteen inch shell at a piece of tissue paper and having it bounce back at you", as Ernest Rutherford so eloquently put it. As amusing as it was to see adults put into their place by the chastising, fire-brand three-year-old, Trish-the-Fish had an aura about her that commanded admiration and a profound respect.

First and foremost, it takes some serious balls to talk back to an adult, especially within the Indian context (Does "somebody gonna get a hurt real bad" ring a bell for anyone here?) I kept waiting in my seat with bated breath for the moment when Trish-the-Fish would finally receive a resounding slap to shut her up, a moment which thankfully never came. I for one, would never have, and still never will, get away unscathed with saying the things she said that night, and true to form, my mom spent a good portion of the auto ride back home expounding her theory that a good smack to the back of Trish-the-Fish's head would have set her straight.

I think what impressed me more about Trish-the-Fish's totally unexpected tirade was the motive behind it and what it said about her character. Trish-the-Fish's transformation that evening from adorable chatterbox to foul-mouthed Amazon was instigated largely by our attitude towards her, and all other little kids for that matter. Try as you might to hide it, but most adults, unfortunately, have developed this complex towards little kids wherein they feel obligated to publicly dissect the poor child's personality, habits, vices, etc., all when the child is also present. How many times have you heard some variation of this at a party: "You are so lucky. Your Timmy is so sweet, helping out around the house like that. Meanwhile, my Bobby still wets the bed and leaves his clothes all over the floor."In a despicable attempt to condition their children's behavior, I have witnessed many a patronizing parent utilize this technique to encourage their kids to continue commendable behaviors and shame them into relinquishing their not so commendable quirks. Like some sort of twisted, medieval punishment, the poor, manipulated children wear the testimonials to their crimes conspicuously: smug, strutting demeanors on the exalted, and humbled, beet-root red ones for the shamed.

Trish-the-Fish was the first kid I had ever met who saw through the ruse and took matters into her own hands. She refused to take the baloney that the adults were force-feeding her, all about how adorable she was and how refreshing it was to hear her endless chatter. When she finally reached her breaking-point and unleashed her fury on the adults, every fiber of her defiant being screamed:"How dare you talk about me as if I were not in the same room and as if I can not hear everything you say? Who do you think that you are, talking down to me as if I were your pet monkey and not a person just like you? Just because I am small, it doesn't mean that I have to fit your conventions about how you think I should behave. I am my own person and I will do things on my own terms." I had never seen someone of such a tender age exhibit such a sense of self-worth and confidence, and needless to say I was bowled over. It takes true courage to be able to say what you want to say, publicly and uncensored.

My one wish for Trish-the-Fish is that she may continue to find the encouragement to freely speak her mind, even if for only a little while longer. The time will inevitably come when the world will have taught her to doubt herself and all she believes in, when she will feel the need to tread as lightly around people as if they were fragile figurines carved of glass, and when she will hide her true thoughts and feelings for fear of rejection and ridicule. Until that time comes, I hope that the people around her will continue to shield her and encourage that simple innocence she demonstrates as a beacon of truth in a sea of lies and deception.

And so I salute Trish-the-Fish for teaching me what it truly means to have a spine and for encouraging me to be brave enough to speak the truth, despite the consequences.

Hairy Tales: Volume 2

The answer to all my hair-related prayers came via an unlikely miracle worker. Enter L's Hair and Nails, the neighborhood salon where one's weekly quota of gossip, mani/pedis, facials and various hair services will be fulfilled by L and her trusty army of shrieking Vietnamese relatives.

My relationship with L and her charming establishment has always been bitter sweet. To sum it up simply, L and I share a relationship not unlike that of a mother-in-law and her daughter-in-law: although she does nothing but criticize, it's only because she really does care. To this day, after 5+ years of patronage, she still addresses me by "girl," and I have yet to get a facial where I am not subject to disapproving noddings of heads and greetings with loud squeals of "Look, a lot, a lot!" in reference to my apparent gold mine of blackheads. For all her shortcomings and the severe damage done to my ego over the course of our relationship, L has been an important part of my life, primping me up for all of my most major milestones: graduation, prom, senior portrait, etc. Without fail, she managed to make me look good, and I am grateful.

For several years, I had started frequenting L's to get my hair shampooed. In this time frame my already wild hair had managed to become even more stubborn and totally freaked out, to the point where even my indefatigable mother was finally forced to concede defeat and seek help in taming my mane. Whenever I would drop by for these monthly washes, the staff of L's was starting to learn a valuable lesson regarding my hair and who really was the boss......

In the beginning, owing to the fact that my mother was a generous tipper, L's minions would fight tooth and nail over who would have sole access to minister to my hair, thereby absorbing the full tip for their already bulging pockets. After a few valiant struggles with my hair which resulted in some pretty nasty wrist injuries and damage to expensive salon combs, however, L and her minions were starting to get the picture and would run away in fear as soon as I entered the salon. "Too much hair, girl. You cut it off please?" they would plead, as they bullied my mother into paying $10 above the normal price for a shampoo in order to even come near me and my hair. Now it would take all three hairdressers at a time, each wielding a terrifying section, to calm the raging beast.

There came a point in time when even L couldn't take it any more. Disappointed by my mother's and my firm insistence that I keep the length of my hair, L finally came up with a solution that we all could live with: Japanese straightening. A gentle alternative to other permanent straightening methods out on the market, L insisted that the technique would make my hair soft, supple, and more importantly, obedient. I had had doubts about straightening my hair before, as other pioneering friends had also tried the technique and returned looking as if they had risen half-way from a jaunt in the electric chair. Desperate times call for desperate measures, however, and I gathered my courage to try, at least, all the while preparing myself to accept the worst that would inevitably occur.

On a Wednesday morning I trudged over to L's, water bottle and books in tow. Yes, I said books, not book; three weighty, glorious tomes on the scale of War and Peace and I still had plenty of time to spare once I got through them. L scheduled me for her slowest day, and by the looks of it she had probably even shut down the store to other customers in order to concentrate her resources on the gargantuan task that lay ahead. For a good 7 and a half hours L and the minions subjected me to a mind-numbing sequence of events: flatten hair using straight-iron, coat generously with noxious, booger-colored cream, allow to sit till locks are plastered to scalp in a hardened helmet, rinse, lather and repeat again. The fumes from the cream, coupled with the shrill, incessant Vietnamese chatter that attacked my ears from all fronts were inducing a migraine headache that would give even a hangover from a bachelor's party a run for its money, and I found myself slipping into an exhausted stupor. Next thing I remember, I'm being whacked in the shoulder and a hand mirror is being pressed in my hand, while L proclaims that the torure is finally over and that I should take a look.

When I finally screwed up enough courage to look in the mirror, the first thing that popped into my mind was that someone had rigged the mirror. I did not recognize the person that was staring back at me, jaw fully distended in disbelief. If you've ever seen the first Princess Diaries movie, I was totally having my own personal Anne Hathaway-esque transformation moment (and you thought the movies were just make-believe!!!!). I really did look as if I had had a "head transplant."

As I walked out of the salon that day, I had my first taste of what it feels like to let one's hair out, free to frolic joyfully in the breeze. The next few weeks were full of other firsts as random people at my high school, who up until that point absoulutely, certainly did not even know of my existence, came up to me and congratulated me on how great my hair looked. Even our circle of family friends was overjoyed, taking it in turns to pet my new and improved mane to allay their suspicions that it wasn't just a wig, all while raving on about how gorgeous I looked.

To be completely honest, all the attention, and that too over a new hairdo, which after all is just dead tissue, was more than a bit disconcerting. I quickly ignored the uneasiness, however, and settled into my new life, living out the scenarios in the countless hair commercials that I had drooled jealously over for the past 18 years. Only difference now was that I was the girl with the shimmering curtain of billowy hair, and it was everyone else's turn to drool jealously.

Despite my new-found happiness, I continued to experience this unidentifiable, uncomfortable feeling in the back of my mind, sort of like the feeling you get when you leave home and all that pops into your head are questions of whether you left the stove on, left the door unlocked, forgot to shut off the faucet, etc.. My apprehensions were finally revealed to me when I received an email from a cousin, whose opinion I value greatly. He wrote to the effect that he would miss my cute curls, and I was completely floored. All I had heard since I got my hair changed was how beautiful I looked; never once had I heard the same thing when my hair was still curly.

It was then that I realized what a fool I had been. I sold out on an idealogy I promised myself that I would always keep, namely to respect and love myself as I was. I promised myself that I would never change who I was or what I looked like just because of what other people thought, and yet, here I was, believing other people's lies that just because I had changed my hair-do, I was suddenly beautiful. The truth is that I was the same beautiful person with or without my curly hair, and I still can't believe that I let people convince me otherwise.

The moral to this incredibly long-winded saga is this: tell the woman/man/child/friend in your life that they are beautiful, unique, and just plain wonderful just as they are. I am sure that they are aware of this truth, but a little public recognition every once in a while doesn't hurt either.