It began, as most tantrums do, in the marketplace. My parents had lured me with promises of the window seat and pani puri and "it'll be a fun outing". All of the above, along with my soul, melted in the excruciating heat of 2pm. I was on the verge of tears when we locked eyes. In a sea of hair clips, scarves and bandannas, in the shiniest shade of blue, sat a crumpled, wrinkly, perfect you.
I took a deep breath. I had to be tactful about this. I logically told my mom that in this day and age, a hair tie is a necessity and my mom logically told me I had several at home and "you keep your hair down anyway". We went back and forth. My lower lip wobbled with the threat of a public meltdown. With the power of logic, I won.
And we left the shop with the scrunchie wrapped around my hair. I walked like pebbles skipping across water, buoyant and bursting with joy. I didn't tell mom then but I had learnt from Oswald about signature accessories, and like his octopus self had a hat, I was going to have this. My blue hair tie.
I wore you even as teachers cramped my diary with remarks of uniform indiscipline and mom despaired over its darkening colour, something about hygiene. I didn't pay attention. I was a self-proclaimed protagonist with their weapon of choice.
We had our fights: when I almost lost you in the swimming pool, when I cut my hair and you made your way to my wrist instead, when you thought I would replace you with a watch. We always made up: in the stuffy hall of 10th boards, at an overpriced cafe courtesy of young love, during the interview in a chilled office; all my firsts adorned with blue.
I still wear you as I pick the softer guavas at the stall, as I kiss her in the low lights of the theater, as I amble through the garden, the sky the same shade as you.
Because here's the thing: you are magic. Like this, with you, I am a bit magic too.
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