Let down your hair, girl!

In our country, rape of the lock is a reality and not a mock-heroic narrative poem

Hair is a big issue. And I had kind of realised that as early as my initial school years. How it happened was through a wedding, or actually through the many events that the led up to that gala marriage and added the finishing touch to it. They (there is no need for specifications, it is always 'they' since it involves just about anybody, even random people) were in a frenzied search for a bride for my uncle. No, I refuse to believe they were looking for a wife for him. It must have been just a bride they wanted, a dool-like creature they could dress up and put up for some kind of exhibition. I was just five, but I had that much sense to figure this out.
They needed her to have big, beautiful eyes, wanted her to be taller then 5 ft, but shorter than 5 ft 4 inches. She had be an awesome cook, adjusting, well-educated but not ever dreaming of working and there was more to the list. So every time we went to some girl's place, I would tag along since the whole family went and they had no one to dump me on. Some of the girls almost natched the catalogue of requirement, and yet got rejected. I soon figured out why. The hair. They measured height, of course, but they measured the length of the hair too. How foolish of me not to have noticed that before.
The hair needed to reach up to the girl's buttocks (pardon my use of language all you sensitive, well-mannered people). Anything less had labels -- extra smart, outgoing, too fashionable for good, modern, disrespectful and even a witch. I had actually liked a girl with the then popular bob cut, and when I expressed my opinion my aunts almost cried and said I was already a lost cause.
They finally found a Rapunzel. At the end of all the ceremonies, they had just one last rite. The bride was made to wash her husband's feet and wipe it with her hair. I had been shocked, but I was a child and gradually outgrew it. I had long enough hair to tie two plaits to school. Then I stepped into teenage and by then, some of the old-schoolers had grown weaker and I was any way not the kind anyone could control.
One day, I cropped my hair. Short enough to make me look like a boy. I returned home on my bicycle, whistling and happy. There were guests at my place and from a distance I could hear the chatter and the laughter. As I approached and the whistling reached their ears, they went quieter. They saw a glimpse of me through the fluttering curtains, and a stony silence fell on the house.
My mother ordered me inside and after the guests had left, a resounding slap fell on my cheek. She cried and told my father she had no idea what crime she had committed inher past life to bear a devil like me. All over the hair. Well, mostly the hair.
In a country like ours, hair is something that invites looks, comments, hoots, but most of all 'traditions'. In the name of tradition, you can make girls use their well-looked after tresses to clean the feet of men. The logic defies me. The ritual disgusts me. The followers of it astound me. I am just glad I still have super short hair. My style, and social, statement.