Men would confess all at a parlour
Why do we need to interrogate terror suspects, just send the beefy, never-say-die terror boss for a facial and a waxing
I have never been to a torture chamber but, the other day in Delhi, I accompanied my wife to a beauty parlour.
Every now and then, we read these stories of suspects being made to undergo rigorous interrogation procedures - which is just a nicer way of saying torture - and how Amnesty and all these other groups, with their heart in the right place, get all upset and protest these inhuman acts and we all agree that it is reprehensible. After all, if you see a movie like The Project Report (Netflix), you do get astounded at what humans can do to each other.
Then you go to this beauty parlour and you wonder where is Amnesty and why aren't they outside and waving flags and stuff and dispatching petitions? And liberals demanding resti-restit-that word meaning compensation. These are people who have something to confess. Like where is the next bomb or whatever but women, by and large, have nothing to give up by way of information.
Half an hour into observing the self-inflicted cosmetic cruelty that women voluntarily engage in and you get the impression it makes Gitmo and places like that look like a holiday resort. We guys get tetchy if the razor blade is a bit blunt and we get a little nick but these ladies, they actually take appointments so that someone can pluck their hair out from their eyebrows one by one. By the third hair, I would be confessing to everything. The way they pluck, tweeze and thread and undergo this agony and then pay for it must rank as the most incredible act of masochism ever.
Then they go into that whole waxing routine, getting rid of unwanted hair, with nary a thought for the hair's feelings. unwanted. They apply the sticky stuff, then rip the hair off, they don't even flinch. Me, I was weeping just watching the upper lip op, I mean stop already.
After which they apply bleach willingly and let it burn and sting and hurt and you want to say, shall I get you some pepper spray so we can go the whole nine yards, fling in some chilli powder, too.
I am trying to reconcile all this torment with my wife pleading on the phone for the appointment. I must come today, even at 2pm, I have a function at night, you have to fit me in.
Can you see some extremist showing the same zeal to his torturer? We're good to go, let me just finish my sandwich and we can start, sorry for holding you up, I'll be there bright and early.
Ladies, they are literally begging for this. Do you know if they don't fit you in then, for the women, it is about the level of a code 10 emergency level, like the US President forgetting his nuclear password? Like, if they cannot get a hair appointment, they might as well shoot themselves.
The way they announce it: I have a hair appointment at 10, like if you are catching a flight that is secondary to a hair appointment. A hair appointment has a sanctity that cannot be challenged. You cannot take the car to meet your boss for a special meeting, I have a hair appointment.
And women have their own favourite torturers. If Elly is not there and Nina has taken leave or Pooja is busy, it is a disaster, whaaatttt, Gina and Julie are on leave, that cannot be, I need them. Then they have to settle for Anjana or Rita and that's the start of a bad hair day.
A bad hair day is also something men do not understand because they never have one.
I am sitting there in pure bewilderment thinking, why do we need to interrogate terror suspects, why waterboard anyone, just send the beefy, never-say-die terror boss for a facial and a waxing. He will be a trembling little heap of nerves in half an hour.
"No more plucking and stop with the waxing, I demand protection under the Geneva Convention, you cannot exfoliate."