Why Absolute Artistic Freedom Can Lead to Chaos
An experience at the hairdresser
When it comes to hair, it would be safe to say I didn’t win the genetic lottery. For a man, hairstyle and beard are among the few socially acceptable ways to beautify or groom oneself. Tattoos are becoming more accepted, and yet, people still judge those who have one. I’ve never gone for a tattoo. I absolutely hate the idea of pricking myself, especially since I have a deep phobia of needles.
Piercings? Apparently, they make a man “feminine”, a label that, according to WhatsApp University, causes sperm counts to drop faster than breathing 1000+ AQI air or consuming highly processed food. I’ve wanted a nose piercing for the past three years, but again, the fear of needles keeps me from following my friend’s advice—“Just go and get it, man.”
The last acceptable grooming option (I think) is clothing. I’ve felt how simply changing clothes can make me feel more confident. My parents’ only dream, other than seeing me married, is to see me in “good clothes”- the kind that would make me look like the raja beta they see in their eyes. Unfortunately for them (and perhaps for me), both those dreams - marriage and shopping - feel unworthy of pursuit. It’s not that I don’t want to get married or look good. I just discount these things as pursuits I’m okay to not take seriously.
Now circling back to where we started: hair.
Since college, I’ve experimented a lot with it. After one semester break, inspired by Shahid Kapoor in Haider, I went almost bald - to the unpleasant surprise of my friends. Later, during my Teach For India fellowship, I grew it long. Really long. I had already started losing hair by then, and I knew I’d never get a chance to grow it out again. So I let my heart decide, even though everyone around me hated it.
After six to eight months of embracing my rockstar look, I sacrificed my hair on the day of Bakri Eid, succumbing to a billion emotional requests from my parents. Luckily, for the next two to three years, I still had dense, healthy hair that I loved taking care of and flaunting.
I believe it was after COVID that I realised that my hair had not only become thinner and sparse but were also leaving me. After every shower, I’d dread looking at the bathroom floor to find a bunch of hair. It took me a very long time to accept this phase of losing hair. On some days, I still find myself stressing over it a bit (which only ends up making me lose more hair)
My days of playing with my hair are almost over and that makes me sad. I grieve the inability to grow long hair again. To run my hand through it and feel its fullness. It makes me feel less like a man.
For the past 2-3 years, I have been going to the salon more often than I should. I like to look groomed and for my hair to look nice and well kept. I have been experimenting with my beard lately which has been quite exciting. For my hair, my instructions to every salon I go to are the same - Just cut enough to make me look nice and make sure to keep the bald spots hidden.
Yesterday, out of boredom I went around for a ride on my motorbike. Midway, I was reminded that I had to get my tyres changed so I went further ahead to get that job done. While waiting at the mechanic, an impromptu idea to get a haircut just appeared to me and on my way back from the mechanic I went to the barber to get one. The barber I go to was busy and I was impatient so I went to another one.
The new barber called himself a hairdresser and carried a very peppy energy. His speaker blared out punjabi songs at full volume and I found myself half entertained and half disturbed at the heavy sound. Like any other hairdresser, I was asked of my preference and as I began giving him my usual instructions, he looked at me with shiny eyes and asked, “Can I cut it my way?”
That felt like a poetic moment.
An artist reclaiming their power to create with full freedom. Almost as if a sculptor had clearly seen what was to be seen through a huge rock and awaited the chance to chisel the rock. In his eyes, one of which was cloudy I could see him imagine a new me, a ME that would be more confident about his looks, more happy about his hair and would carry the same aura as the hairdresser who had the courage to reclaim his artistic freedom.
I said yes and having removed my specs that blinded me to what was happening gave him complete agency over my hair.
He sprayed an enormous amount of water on my hair, enough for them to be drenched and almost dripping. Few cuts here, few cuts there, then he played around with the trimmer. I could see him in blur running the trimmer over my entire scalp area next to both my ears and yet I trusted him. What good would I be as an artist if I didn’t let him do whatever he wanted to?
It took him almost 30 mins to cut my hair and even by the end of it, he was playing around with his scissors and cutting few parts of my hair in a very unusual manner. Almost like someone who was aching to try this secret age old recipe on me. He had arrested me with his ask for freedom so even though I grew weary of his tricks, I surrendered myself to his craft.
When he was finally done, I quickly reached out to catch my spectacles. Just as i wore them, I felt a sudden splash of reality hit my face. I absolutely hated how I looked. I had briefed him that I wanted a simple cut, enough to make me look groomed and neat but here I was looking like a cheap knockoff of Faris Shafi.
I had wanted a simple haircut and planned to remove all of my beard, keeping just the moustache. I now wondered if I should let him use his creativity on my beard too or just instruct him as I wanted to. In a classic dilemma of client’s needs vs freedom to artist, I once again chose the hairdresser’s freedom and removing my specs yet again, sat back on his chair to be his loyal experiment.
By now, I had zero expectations. I had already fucked it up. As I heard him trimming my jawline with wild abandon, I sighed. I was ready to pull on a hoodie and disappear into the night.
Soon after, when he laid down his tools and stepped back to get a good glimpse of his creation and craft, I realised that perhaps he had concluded whatever he had in mind.
My hands slowly reached forth to catch hold my specs and yet I waited a little more for him to fully soak in the experience of having created something fine, to let him enjoy his moment of pride.
When I did put on my specs, I put on a big smile out of admiration for the hairdresser’s job. I asked him a few questions to make me feel that I was curious about him and his craft and just as soon as I could after having paid him, I vanished out of thin air to retreat back to my home to grieve my new hairstyle.
At home, before I went off to sleep I wondered about the dance of artistic expression vs expectations of the receiver of art. I wondered if it was the right thing to give him complete agency or should I have instructed him to cut the hair as I wanted and as I usually did.
Art is as subjective as it can be. Perhaps, yesterday’s experience would have enabled the hairdresser to feel more confident about his craft and skill as he got the chance to practice himself on me and yet in this case, the purpose of his art was to make me feel better about myself in which he miserably failed. I also think whether even in his idea of freedom of creation was he genuinely free or were his ideas and creativity very closely linked to his past references/ experiences.
For instance he often quoted a few punjabi music singers and rappers who carried the same hairstyle.
And the bigger question: Is any form of artistic expression ever truly free of influence?
Being smart enough to ask these questions but not smart enough to answer them, I ran my hand through my thin, tired hair.
With a small laugh at the absurdity of it all, I called it a night.
I invite you to reflect and write on the following prompt:
When have you given or claimed full artistic freedom?
What happened when freedom met expectation?
As a feature of all my newsletters, I share one song, one book, one plant-based meal, one film/video that inspired me, and some photographic updates from my life.
Song: I enjoyed listening to Lucky Ali’s live
Book/Newsletter: I am still (very slowly) reading Ibn - e - Battuti by Divya Prakash Dubey and How to Break Up With Your Phone by Catherine Price.
Meal: Grateful to be back in Bir. Grateful to have healthy food on my plate. Grateful for fruits especially!
Film/Video: I watched Superboys of Malegaon in the theatre last week, and right after it I watched Supermen of Malegaon (Documentary). Please watch both to witness how powerful passion can be and how a single individual’s creative journey can open doors for so many people.
Photograph(s):
Quiet moments in Bir
Read my other newsletters :
The story of moving to the mountains
Why I Ran from Vipassana
My relationship with failure
Photography, my first love
Read my short stories :
Compilation of all recommendations :
Video recommendations
Music recommendations
Books
Free Journaling eBook:
Last year, I compiled a journaling ebook for myself for times when I feel I have nothing to write. I am offering it to you for free. Whether you’re starting your journaling journey or feeling stuck in a creative block, this guide will help you find your way.
Download your free journaling e-book here.
Thank you for reading my work
Rishabh Khaneja
Creative Writing Laboratory
Instagram | Substack | LinkedIn | Creative writing workshops
Lovely read :)
And reminded me of our recent brief conversation about hair
I think you raise important questions about art....and life
I think it's so important to be aware of our own expectations and desires, which are often subconscious
And openness to the unknown and unfamiliar is often difficult and scary
And it can lead to bliss but also hell
I think it's beautiful to have hope in the unknown
I wonder if it's possible to be so daring in life without that hope
You provided a safe place for absolute creative freedom beyond upper caste male policed wakf wakf barking apartheid Ram laxmans. Old men cartels are screwing up this world and time is ripe for change.