Dancing with Tufts

When you get a Rs 5,000 haircut from Alessandro Calvio, you have something of a ballet happening on your head

I consider myself a pretty vain person. And ever since I was a child, my hair has been my crowning glory. Poker straight with a Sadhna fringe till I was about 20, then a blunt cut (oh, I cringe), a perm (I must have been cuckoo), and then finally after I shifted to Mumbai, a funky mushroom cut. For the last two years, I have had what I would like to think is a chic, classy version of the ageless ‘steps’ haircut. I have often also experimented with colour, and I think I look fine, if you know what I mean. So it doesn’t bode well when the first thing that the intimidating Italian hair maestro at Mumbai’s Rossano Ferretti Hair Spa, Alessandro Calvio, says to me is, “Your hair colour doesn’t do anything for your skin.”

I try not to burst into tears. After all, I have just got it coloured a day ago. “Really?” I ask with a smile. He smiles back at my oh-so-obvious dismay: “Yeah, I would have gone for copper instead of burgundy. Indian hairstylists love reds,” he says, rolling his eyes. I smile again, meekly, and he puts me out of my misery with a grin and “But today, haircut, yes?”

Yes, yes, I am here today at this Italian salon at the Four Seasons Hotel for Mumbai’s most expensive haircut. At Rs 4,000 plus taxes, this should work out to Rs 5,000, which is pretty expensive for a haircut. Compared to what Rossano Ferretti, the salon’s owner, usually charges—$1,000 for a haircut (the most expensive in the world), I guess I ought to feel I’ve got a deal.

I notice Alessandro circling my hair, and then he asks, “You have any idea, or try something new?” In response, I look a little out of words. It’s a cue for him to take charge: “Your hair looks all disjointed. Hair on top, too short; hair below, too long. No harmony, right? We create harmony. We make your natural beauty even more beautiful, right? It shouldn’t look like a planned haircut. Natural, all natural…”

I feel a twinge of suspicion. Shouldn’t a Rs 5,000 haircut look like a haircut? What if nobody even notices it? But I have to go along. I am sent in for a hair wash and condition, and as I sink into the plush chair and tilt my head back, I know why this is a world-class salon. I’ve always had a problem with hairwash chairs at salons, where my neck feels like it’s going to snap. But this chair makes me want to doze comfortably off.

And then I am back in front of the stern Alessandro. Would he hate my hair, I find myself wondering—am I actually getting intimidated by my stylist? This has never happened to me before. Then he asks, “You have straightened hair?”

“No, all natural,” I grin, as I sip my delicious green tea. He looks impressed. “Oh beautiful,” he exclaims, “Indians have the best hair. Beautiful.” It only takes a compliment for me to get back my confidence. Suddenly, Alessandro doesn’t look so scary anymore. “I love cutting hair. Italians don’t do anything unless and until it’s a passion. When you walk in this door, you are a king or queen to me, and my aim is to make you look beautiful. Like you, you will look beautiful.” I blush and ask him what he thinks of the Indian hair market. He turns pensive and then says, “It’s growing, but they all do the same thing—they all copy Vidal Sassoon. Information is less, but it will grow.”

It is a treat watching Alessandro cut my hair, it’s so different. He hovers around me, almost tiptoeing as his scissors go snippety-snip, and there isn’t a corner of my head he doesn’t touch. It does seem like he’s painting, and with a panache I haven’t seen before. Come to think of it, he actually resembles a ballet dancer, one who is treating my hair to a performance. As it begins to take shape, I can see it looks fabulous. “I go where the hair takes me,” he says, “You need to listen to the hair. And that’s what matters. It has to be the best you that the hair brings out. Can you see yourself becoming prettier?” At this moment, yes, that’s just how I feel. With each snip, my face looks better and better defined. Is this what they could call bespoke hair? He laughs, “Yes, it’s like a suit, a tailored one.”

We are friends now, Alessandro and I. As we talk about how Indians love pasta and pizza, and how he loves paneer, and how we all love garlic, he snips and snips. He is funny too, recounting his adventures with neighbours and the spices they make at 5 am. Alessandro is beginning to become my favourite person. A final few snips, and he’s done. He looks at me and smiles, “You feel different?”

Yes, I do feel different. My head feels lighter, but my hair looks fuller. It’s chic and oh-so-sophisticated, but it’s still so cutting edge. It makes me feel sexy. And it dawns on me—maybe a bespoke haircut deserves every rupee that’s charged. I find myself asking him, “Are you going to be here in a few months?” He looks amused, “I am going to London. But I will be back. Maybe, I see you then?”

I think it’s more than merely possible that he would see me back. I give it a three-fourths probability as I pay the bill. Alessandro waves, “It was lovely meeting you.” And I wave back with gusto.

A friend I meet later for lunch exclaims, “Did you get a haircut? Your hair looks absolutely awesome… Where did you go?” Dear Alessandro, you now have me hair, line and sinker.

About The Author

Aastha Atray Banan