Friend indeed

Your closest friendships are those you form in school and college

 

I still remember the trepidation I felt when I headed to school on my first day. I didn’t know what school entailed exactly; all I knew was that I was about to be catapulted into an entirely new environment, in which I would know no one. Except that wasn’t precisely true. I was heading to school, determinedly holding hands with my first bestie ever. Kavita Bagga was her name though to me she was always Sweety (her pet name), and the two of us clung to each other like limpets as we made our way through our first few months in school until we finally branched out to make other friends as well.

 

That’s the thing about being a child; it seems the easiest thing in the world to make friends. Put a bunch of kids who don’t know each other in a playground and in a couple of hours’ time they will be happily chatting and laughing (or crying) with one another and making plans to meet again. And that’s true of both toddlers and teenagers; there is something about being young that makes us far more receptive to – and accepting of – friendships. 

 

There is a reason why school and college friendships are among the closest that we ever experience in our lives. This is the time when we are looking to make connections with those around us whose lives are at a similar stage. This is the time when we feel most deeply about issues (blame it on the hormones!) and most intensely about those we care about. This is the time when we find our tribe. And this is about the last time when we have the luxury of spending long hours with our inner circle, deepening our bonds; once we get caught up in work and demands of our own growing family, it becomes impossible to find the hours to develop close friendships. 

 

Unless, of course, you are lucky enough – as I was – to make close friends at your workplace as well. There is a certain camaraderie that forms among office colleagues who are beginning their careers at the same time (though it could easily tip into competition if you are not careful), and those late nights at work can double as bonding sessions as well. Even twenty years after we last shared an office, I am still close with some of my former co-workers, and the segue from colleague to friend has been near-seamless.

 

But now that I have reached my middle age, I find it quite a challenge to expand my friendship circle. With my old friends, we already have a shorthand developed after decades spent laughing and crying together. They have seen me through the lows. They have cheered me on through my highs. We have shared experiences that have calcified as seminal memories of our lives. We can complete each other’s sentences. We can go months without talking, and then pick up effortlessly from where we left off. We offer each other friendship, faith, forgiveness and freedom in equal measure.

 

Could I possibly create bonds like that with someone new I meet at this stage of my life? It may well be possible; but, to be honest, it seems less than probable. Or am I just being close-minded? From where I stand, it’s pretty hard to tell.

 

The middle ages

Sometimes it is better to embrace the ageing process rather than fight it endlessly

 

If you have watched Mare of Easttown (and if you haven’t, well, what are you waiting for?) you will know that Kate Winslet has deglamorized herself completely to play the detective in the title. She barely wears any make-up, her hair looks as if it hasn’t seen a brush in days, her facial warts are completely visible, and her fashion sense doesn’t seem to extend beyond plaid shirts and hoodies (though she does clean up nicely for the occasional date).

 

Winslet says she was determined to portray a middle-aged woman as they really exist in real life – with broadening middles, less than luminescent complexions, and wrinkles that hint at a life lived fully. So much so that when the director of the show offered to edit her ‘bulgy’ bits in a sex scene, Winslet refused to let him do so. That was her body in her mid 40s. And she wasn’t going to pretend it was any different. 

 

The result is an authentic portrait of a woman in middle age: a little battered around the edges, a wee bit worse for wear, but magnificent in her authenticity. 

 

I couldn’t help but think of Winslet and Mare of Easttown as I sat through the Friends Reunion, laughing and crying in equal measure. Having grown up with Friends, I feel a sense of kinship with the leading ladies of the show. And watching them age from season one to season ten was one way of making peace with my own ageing process as I went from my 20s to my 30s and then my 40s. 

 

But the Reunion show came as a bit of jolt. Here were Rachel, Monica and Pheobe in their 50s, each of them presenting a different attitude to ageing. Lisa Kudrow appeared to have embraced the passage of time, making peace with the inevitable wrinkles around her eyes, mouth and neck. In contrast, Jennifer Aniston looked as if she had been frozen in her mid-30s. There were the odd signs of ageing – the cheeks were a little fuller, the jaw just a tad less defined – but other than that she still looked like the Rachel we remembered from the last season of Friends. 

 

And then, there was Courtney Cox. Except that she was less Monica Geller and more a cautionary tale of the dangers of too much Botox and way too many fillers. Her forehead was a frozen field, her cheeks were far too plump, and her lips looked almost unnatural in their fullness. It was hard to reconcile that face with the fresh-faced beauty that we had met and loved in Friends. And it was even harder not to wish that she had left her face well alone – or, at least, known when to stop. 

 

Gazing at Cox’s altered visage made me appreciate Sarah Jessica Parker more than I have ever done since the days of Sex And The City. In her latest TV series, Divorce, Parker looks like the best version of her middle-aged self. There is no attempt to hide the laugh lines around her eyes and mouth, her forehead crinkles up with disgust and anger ever so often, and her neck is lined like that of any other 50-something. But she still looks luminous, with sparkling eyes, springy hair, and a waistline that could give teenagers a run for their money. 

 

Of course, all these women have all the money, time, dermatologists and cosmetic surgeons in the world available to them, as they negotiate their middle ages in their own chosen way. But what about the rest of us, who barely have time (or frankly, the inclination) to exercise every day, to eat healthy at every meal, and spend every night rubbing anti-wrinkle cream into our faces and necks (never forget the neck!)?

 

Well, I guess we will just have to bid goodbye to our inner Monicas and Rachels and embrace the Pheobe within each of us. Let the wrinkles dance across our faces, telling the story of our tears and laughter. Let our waistlines expand in tribute to how much life we have tasted.

 

And let’s embrace our years instead of fighting to hide the marks they have left on us.

The one in which...

Friends turns 25…Celebrating the show that was the soundtrack of our lives

I still remember the first time I caught an episode of Friends. I was flying to New York and the in-flight entertainment system featured a few episodes of this new hit show. Bored out of my skull on that long, interminable flight, I tuned in – and in less time than it takes to sing ‘I’ll be there for you’ I was hooked. 

It helped, of course, that as a 20-something just venturing out on her own with a brand new career in journalism, I had a lot in common with the 20-something cast of Friends, who were also beginning to negotiate their own adult lives on the show. But it also didn’t matter that there was a lot that we didn’t have in common either. 

These ‘Friends’ lived on their own or with roommates in nice apartments in New York; I still lived with my parents in Calcutta. They spent all their spare time – and unlike me, they seemed to have loads of it – at a funky coffee shop called Central Perk (get it? Of course I did!); the only place I got to hang out with my friends/colleagues was at the shabby roof-top cafeteria at the ABP offices in a crummy Calcutta bylane where we quickly grabbed some bread pakoras before heading back for another shift before the computers. And of course, they all looked super hot and very glamorous; me, not so much.

But none of these differences mattered as I fell deeply in love with the show and its characters. And that’s because the themes the series explored were universal in their scope and all-encompassing in their reach. 

As I grew up, both in my professional and personal life, so did the cast of Friends. I laughed along as Pheobe sang ‘Smelly Cat’; I grew indignant on Rachel’s behalf when Ross insisted that they were ‘on a break’ (okay, they were; but that didn’t excuse his behavior); I giggled helplessly as Joey spouted ‘French’ (as in gibberish) in one of his auditions; I rooted for Monica and Chandler to become more than friends with benefits; and of course, like the rest of the world, I grew endlessly frustrated when Ross and Rachel didn’t seem to get that they were meant to be together (though, thankfully, they made it by the end of ten seasons).

By the time the show ended, like most of my generation who had grown up with these characters, I felt bereft. But I didn’t have to mourn long. The repeat telecasts began soon after and there was never an evening when you couldn’t find an episode or two of Friends airing on one of the entertainment channels. So often did I watch these, that I knew the scripts well enough to deliver the punch lines a beat before the characters did.

The thing about Friends is that even though the show ended many years ago in a sense it never went away. It remained within easy reach, offering a comfort watch at the end of a long and challenging day, almost like a bubble bath of sparkling comedy you could immerse yourself in to wash off your accumulated tiredness. It became the soundtrack of our lives, the laugh lines coming nice and easy every single time we tuned in. 

So, you will understand why it came as a bit of shock to me when I read that Friends was now celebrating its 25 anniversary. My first thought was: when did I get so old? And the second was: My god, I am officially old. 

But once I was done mourning my younger self, I began thinking about what Friends had taught me about youth and growing up. And it turns out, it was quite a lot. Here’s just a small sampling:

• In the first episode itself, in which Rachel makes an appearance as a runaway bride, there was an important life lesson for women of my generation. Don’t settle for your ‘Barry’. Make a run for it, no matter how embarrassing it may be. Hold out for the Real Thing, no matter how long the wait.

• No matter what the cost, follow your passion. It may be dinosaurs or massage therapy, acting or cooking. But do what makes you happy, even if it involves a late-life change in career like the one Chandler affects. 

• Everyone has a talent; it is only a question of identifying it and making it work for you. Even Rachel, who starts out as the spoilt rich Daddy’s girl whose only skill is shopping, ends up making it big in the world of fashion, scoring a job in Paris no less.


• There is someone for everyone. Even the supremely weird Phoebe ends up with two men fighting over who gets to propose to her. The awkward, ad-libbing Chandler ends up in wedded bliss with his best friend Monica. And after torturing us for ten seasons with will-they or won’t-they questions, Rachel and Ross finally get together (“she got off the plane!”).

• But the show also reminds us that if you do end up alone like Joey, that’s no reason to fret. You can always move into the apartment above the garage of your best friends, and be the fun uncle who spoils their kids silly. Just retire the phrase ‘How you doin’?’ when you hit 40, and you should be fine.

HIt me baby, one more time!

Here are just some iconic TV shows I would love to see in a brand new avatar

You cannot imagine my delight when I heard that Murphy Brown was going to be back on our television screens, with a much older (and presumably much wiser) Candice Bergen making her comeback on fictional TV network. For those of you who were born too late to know what I am talking about, this was a TV series that created a fair bit of controversy in its day (in the Ronald Reagan-Bush senior era) when its lead star, a TV anchor called Murphy Brown, decided to become a single mother. 

Well, the first two episodes of the Murphy Brown reboot just dropped and I have to say that the new series is quite as good as the original. Actually, if anything it is even better. I don't want to post any spoilers but any show that has its lead character getting into a Twitter battle with President Donald Trump in the very first episode has my vote. 

But even I chortled and chuckled at the best lines, I couldn't help but think of the various other shows I had enjoyed in my childhood and my youth, which I would love to see recast for my middle age. Here is just a short sampling of them. 

The West Wing

This rates as my favourite TV series ever. I have seen some of the episodes so often that I know the lines by heart. Earlier, I used to dip into the box set I had bought of all seven seasons. But now that it is available on Amazon Prime, I binge on it even more often.

Most fellow fans who would also like to see the series revived - ideally with Aaron Sorkin as the lead writer, producer and director - tend to favour Sam Seaborn (Rob Lowe) as the new President of the USA. But my money is on C.J. Cregg (Alison Janney) as the first woman American President. It's about time, wouldn't you say? And if it's never going to happen in reality, then I will happily settle for fiction instead.

But at the end of the day, it doesn't really matter who plays the President. The original West Wing derived its strength from the strong ensemble cast, its overarching story line, and of course, some brilliant writing. Who can forget the banter between Josh and his loyal secretary Donna? Or the acerbic Toby's sarcastic asides which often stole the scene effortlessly? Or indeed, President Bartlet's tendency to bore everyone to death with his endless prattling on about facts and figures.

But more than anything else, I do wish the West Wing would come back with its bracing idealistic vision of a world in which liberal values are the lodestar. If nothing else, it would provide a strong counterpoint to the goings-on in the actual West Wing!

Yes, Minister

My second-favourite political show of all time. Here again, the writing was of such superlative quality that the original series hasn't dated at all. But wouldn't it be fun if someone like Armando Iannucci (of The Thick Of It and Veep fame) recast Yes, Minister - and later, Yes, Prime Minister - in the times of Theresa May, Boris Johnson and, of course, Donald Trump.

My personal preference would be to have a blond buffoon like Boris Johnson (albeit one with hidden depths of cunning and chutzpah) in Number 10, Downing Street, setting off crisis after crisis both in domestic politics and international polity. Just the thought of it makes me giggle. 

Friends

Yes, yes, I know all the cast members have announced at various times that they have no intention of doing a reboot of the series. And on the rare occasions when they have conceded the possibility of a revival, it's always to add that it will never happen because Jennifer Aniston will never agree.

Well, frankly, much as I loved Rachel Green, I would be happy to settle for a Jennifer Aniston-less Friends. They can pretend that she's gone off to Paris to work in the fashion world (maybe have her call in occasionally) and let the rest of the cast get on with it. 

Monica and Chandler would be living in suburbia, bringing up their teenage twins (we don't have to be chronologically accurate, do we?), with Joey living in the garage flat, after he's lost all his money after an acrimonious divorce. Ross could be on his fourth wife and a new set of children. And Phoebe would have her own spa empire, with Mike playing house husband. 

I can't wait to see what the friends make of the 21st century, of Twitter and Instagram, and the woke Millennials that their kids are turning out to be. 

Could I be more exited? Nah, I don't think so.

Boston Legal

As legal dramas go, this one was in a class of its own. A superbly talented cast led by William Shatner, Candice Bergen (yes, her again) and James Spader, this show has both dramatic intensity and comic relief in equal measure. I suspect that in the #MeToo era, Shatner could not possibly get up to some of the politically incorrect stuff he did in the original series. But then, he did marry Spader in the last episode (for tax reasons, not because they belatedly discovered they were homosexual). And he would probably be a hundred years old in the reboot, anyway.

So maybe a new, younger cast, led by Spader and some of the other familiar faces, may make sense. So long as the law cases remain as tricky, the characters as eccentric and the writing as quirky, we could be on a winner. 

The Great Escape

When the world gets too much to bear, it’s time to retreat to your ‘happy place’

Yes, I know exactly how you feel. It seems like the world has gone to hell in a handbasket. And you don’t know how you’re going to get through the next month, the next year, let alone the rest of your life.

You’ve spent days trying to live off the loose change you’ve scrounged from around the house. Or you spent endless hours queuing at the bank or at an ATM to get access to your own money. Donald Trump (Donald Trump!) is the new President of the United States. Leonard Cohen died. The list of misfortunes and tragedies seems endless.

So how do we survive in this world, which has begun to seem like such a nasty, brutish place?

Well, I don’t know about you, but I try and do so by going to my ‘happy place’. Which is often not a place at all but a state of mind I achieve by doing what pleases me best.

Here are just some of the things I have been doing over the last week or so to achieve ‘happy place’ status.

·       If you can’t stand the heat, get back in to the kitchen: There is something therapeutic about stirring a pot of rice on the stove to make a comforting risotto for dinner. Or carefully measuring out the ingredients of a gooey chocolate cake and concentrating on getting the mixture just right. Or even using the first meethi of the season to make theplas for breakfast. If all this seems like too much work to you, then crack open a few eggs, add a dash of double cream, salt, pepper, herbs, and stir slowly over very low heat. Pile the mixture on to hot, buttered toast. The world’s troubles will recede with every mouthful.

·       Get lost in the pages of an old book: There is nothing like comfort reading to make you feel better about yourself and the state of the world. And when the horrors of the world threaten to overwhelm, I retreat to the books of my childhood. I just finished re-reading Black Beauty, a birthday present from a young friend who knows me too well. And now I have started on Enid Blyton’s Malory Towers series, in the hope that the adventures of Darrell Rivers and gang will keep me from obsessing over President Trump (yes, yes, I know he’s not my President; but that doesn’t make it any easier). Word of caution: may be a good idea to stay away from the Harry Potter series. All those Voldemort references might come crashing back.

·       Out of the mouths of babes: Spend time with children. Read them stories. Listen to what they got up to in school. Ask them to tell you the latest jokes they heard in class. Get them to share their worries and fears; if nothing else, that will put your worries and fears in perspective. If you don’t have any kids of your own, don’t worry. This is an emergency and you are allowed to borrow them from friends and family. There is nothing like listening to the inconsequential chatter that emerges from children to make you forget the cares of the grown-up universe. (Note: if there are no children handy, just head for the nearest park and watch the kids at play. Their screams and shouts of pleasure will make you feel better about the state of the world.)

·       Schedule a digital detox: If you can’t stay offline during the day because of the nature of your work, that’s fine. But once you get home, put away the smartphone and tune out the constant chatter of the outside world. Don’t peek in to review your friends’ status updates on Facebook. Don’t keep trawling twitter to see (and outrage about) what’s happening in the world. Don’t even check into Instagram to see those carefully-filtered images of perfectly-curated lives. Let the outside world fade away while you listen to music, read a book, or just talk to your loved ones.

·       Watch re-runs of your favourite feel-good TV shows: My own go-to show when depressed is Friends, which I have now seen so many times that I know entire episodes by heart. Modern Family, with its blended families and cute kids, serves as another emotional retreat. And of late, I have taken to binge-watching Gilmore Girls on Netflix as well, while sneaking in a few episodes of Will and Grace. There is certain comfort in retreating to a parallel universe where nothing really bad happens; and there are no nasty surprises because you know exactly what’s coming next.

Well, that’s just a small sample of the many things I did to try and stay sane while the world seemed to run mad. But if none of them work for you, then you could always go to your actual ‘happy place’ and recover your equilibrium. Walk down the flower-edged paths of your favourite park. Take a day trip to the beach with a picnic basket of your favourite treats. Or retreat to the mountains for a weekend of quiet and calm.

And take comfort in the thought that whatever happens, the sun will rise again tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. It may seem like the world has ended; but you will soon discover that the reports of its demise were vastly exaggerated.

On your knees!

When the chaos of the world threatens to overwhelm, it is time to count your blessings

My guess is that this Sunday morning, as you sit down with your first cup of chai/coffee, you are a wee bit fed up of all the bad news that seems to be playing out on surround sound in our world. The Sensex has crashed, Pakistan persists in sending terrorists across to India, onion prices keep soaring into the stratosphere, the monsoon is failing, and murder mysteries get murkier and murkier with every re-telling. 

But in case the universe seems to have stopped making sense, pause for a minute, breathe in, exhale, and take a minute to count your blessings. For that’s what I intend to do this morning: tot up all the many things that I have to be thankful for. Feel free to join in; trust me, it will make you feel much better about yourself and the world we live in.

Okay, first up is health. If you are on the wrong side of forty, you may have a few niggling worries on that score. Your cholesterol count may be high, your blood pressure may be elevated slightly, your knees and back giving you a bit of trouble, and sore on and sore forth. But step back and look at the bigger picture. You are still alive and kicking. You haven’t lost the use of your limbs or indeed your brain. The rest of it is just detail, which can be ironed out with a new fitness regime. So render thanks for the fact that you are still around – and still standing (if only just!).

A close second comes family. It doesn’t matter how big or small this is, whether it is extended or nuclear, dysfunctional or perfect, related by blood or marriage. As long as there are people in it who love you and are, in turn, loved by you, there is a lot to be thankful for. You may be in daily touch with them; or you may not have spoken to them in months. But so long as you know that there are people out there who care for you and will drop everything to be by your side if you need them (as you would for them) then you are blessed indeed. 

Next up are your friends. No, not the ones you list on Facebook, whose status updates and pictures you faithfully ‘like’ every time you log on. Not the ones on Twitter who respond to your every sally with a smiley face emoji. Not the ones you meet on the cocktail circuit, all air kisses and false intimacy. Not the ones who are cultivating you for whatever benefit they can leech off you, all the while telling you how absolutely amazing you are. No, not those ‘friends’.

The friends you should be grateful for are the ones who see you for what you are, accept you with all your flaws, and love and support you regardless. These are the ones who will answer truthfully when you ask if you ass looks enormous in these jeans. They are the ones who will pick up the phone at 3 am in the morning if you find yourself in a spot of bother. They are the ones who will attack you to your face and defend you behind your back (rather than the other way round). If you have even one of those then consider yourself truly blessed.

That’s the big stuff. But there is also a lot of small stuff that makes us feel truly blessed, if only we would stop to think about. In my case, the list goes something like this:

• A room of my own: That was something I longed for growing up as the youngest in a joint family. The ability to retreat into a space that was completely my own, where nobody could intrude without my express permission. A place where I could be alone with my thoughts, my books, my music, or simply with myself. When I finally moved to another city to live on my own, the sense of freedom I felt was something quite indescribable. Even today, when I no longer live alone, it feels like a blessing to be able to retreat into my own space when I want to.
• Books, books, and books: I often think that if I were ever to wash up on a deserted island, I would be quite content so long as it had a stash of my favourite books and a soft pillow to rest my head on! But more seriously, while I could easily cope without a TV or even an internet connection, even the thought of living in a world without books sends a shiver up my spine.
• An evening at home: The social whirl is not for me. My idea of the perfect evening is pottering around in the kitchen to make something simple for dinner, eating it with family as we chat about the day, following up with some quality time with a box set of one of my favourite TV shows, and then reading myself to sleep. And, of course, counting my blessings, as the lights go out.

Put a ring on it!

Now that Jennifer Aniston is married, will we finally stop treating her as a 'poor old thing'?

Finally, we can all breathe easy. Jennifer Aniston is once again safe within the holy bonds of matrimony. A decade after her divorce from Brad Pitt, and after a series of failed relationships, Aniston married fiancée Justin Theroux in a private ceremony at their Bel-Air home last week. And in the process, she managed to cock a snook at all those nasty tabloids who made millions by speculating over her 'single' status and child-free womb for years by keeping her nuptials entirely private -- or 'secret', as the disgruntled hacks harrumphed in their copy the next day when the news finally broke.

So, I guess we now have permission to stop feeling sorry for 'poor old Jen' who was dumped by her husband for the sultry temptress Angelina Jolie, and who could never really find 'true love' after that, despite searching for it in the arms of men as diverse as Vince Vaughan and John Mayer.

There is just one problem with this scenario. And that is: I never felt sorry for Jennifer Aniston to begin with. Not remotely sorry. Not mildly sympathetic. Or even slightly regretful about the way her life had turned out.

I mean, seriously, how can anyone in their right minds feel sorry for someone like Aniston? She is bright, beautiful, famous, successful, rich, fit, and healthy. She won a place in our hearts as Rachel in Friends, and since then has resolutely refused to vacate it. She may have made some bad movies, but she was always good in them. She dated some of the best-looking and talented men on the planet. She may have kissed a few frogs along the way, but hey, what makes you think she was looking for a Prince? She didn't need to. She was a Princess in her own right, a prize catch, a trophy girlfriend/wife, whom any man would be lucky to get to call his own.

But no, that narrative was never going to sell any tabloids or trashy magazines. So Jen had to be cast as a sad, forlorn figure who was still pining away for ex-husband Brad Pitt, even as he moved on with Angeline Jolie and their ever-increasing brood of children. No matter how many times Aniston insisted that that chapter of her life was over and people needed to turn the page, the media refused to listen. Instead, entirely fictitious stories about her obsession with Pitt (and Jolie) and her sadness about her childless state continued to make the headlines.

Even when she announced her engagement to Justin Theroux and emerged with a rock-like diamond on her finger, the 'poor old Jen' narrative continued. Now, it was about how Theroux was not exactly an A-grader like Pitt, but then Aniston didn't have too many options on the wrong side of 40, did she? And even if this relationship didn't stutter to an end like all those others, she was probably too old to have kids anyway, wasn't she? Poor thing! Life hadn't really worked out too well for her, had it?

Such was the intensity of the womb-watch that ensued that even Aniston, who usually laughs off the incessant baby speculation surrounding her uterus, was pushed to respond in an interview that she even though she hadn't had children, she did not feel unfulfilled because she had 'birthed' several other things, like movie projects, etc. And that, I must confess, was the only time I felt truly sorry for Jen. Why should she -- or any other woman, for that matter -- have to justify her reproductive life to anybody else? It really is no one's business but her own.

Of course, it never works out that way, because that is what being a woman is all about, isn't it? Finding the right man. Getting him to marry her. Settling down to cosy domesticity. Pushing out a couple of sprogs before her eggs go completely off. And then, making a success of marriage and motherhood.

Seriously? How is this narrative even a thing in the second decade of the 21st century? Why do we still buy into this drivel and treat any woman whose life deviates from this Grand Plan as a failure, no matter how beautiful, rich, happy, famous or successful she may be? Why do we apply criteria that wouldn't seem out of place in the 19th century to judge the woman of today?

I have thought long and hard about this. And I still don't have an answer for you. All I know is that no matter what their other talents and attributes, at the end of the day women are still judged on the basis of their personal lives. Just how great a guy did she manage to 'ensnare' into marrying her? How good is she as a baby machine? Is her marriage still intact? Do her kids do well at school? Does she run an efficient household? And so on and on and on.

Which is why I have a sneaking suspicion that we are not done with Aniston as yet. No sooner is she back from her honeymoon, then the baby babble will start. Is she pregnant? Can she get pregnant? Is she going the surrogate route? Or will she simple adopt, like Angeline Jolie? Because, you know, she never really got over losing Brad to her!

And the media circus will roll on with the 'poor old Jen' narrative, selling millions of newspapers and magazines. As they saying goes, plus ca change.

Like a boss

Why ban the word ‘bossy’ when you can own it?

So, Sheryl Sandberg doesn’t like the word ‘bossy’. The Facebook COO explained why in an op-ed piece she recently co-authored with Girl Scouts CEO Anna Maria Chavez for the Wall Street Journal. The word ‘bossy’, she wrote, is used disparagingly to describe girls who exhibit leadership qualities, while the boys who lead are described as ‘strong’ and ‘determined’.

Sandberg herself grew up being called ‘bossy’ and the use of that adjective made her feel bad about herself. So, she is now using the might of her non-profit organization Leanin.org to push for a ban on the use of that word so that girls like her can grow up feeling better about themselves.

To put her message out to the world, Sandberg also recorded a video starring such female role models as Condoleezza Rice, Diane Von Furstenberg, Jennifer Garner and Jane Lynch. This public service announcement ends with musical megastar Beyonce staring into camera and saying, “I’m not bossy. I am the boss.”

Well, in that case, just what is so wrong about being called ‘bossy’? All it really means is ‘like a boss’. So, why treat it like a dirty word? You can bet that if young boys were called ‘bossy’ they would wear the label like a badge of pride and not treat it like an insult. Why should young girls, then, treat it as some of sort of slur?

Words do matter. But what matters more is what we make of them. Treat the word ‘bossy’ as if it was an insult and soon it will come to mean just that. Accept it as a compliment and it will soon become one.

There is this one episode in Friends that comes to mind. Monica is complaining to Pheobe about how her mother makes her feel bad about herself. Every time I do something wrong, she explains, my mother calls it ‘pulling a Monica’. Well, why don’t you change that, asks Pheobe. The next time you do something right, call that ‘pulling a Monica’.

That’s exactly what we should be doing with words like ‘bossy’. We should be embracing them as something positive, a validation of our leadership skills, rather than a negative comment on our assertiveness.

Sandberg clearly doesn’t see it that way. For her and Rachel Thomas, co-founder of Leanin.org, the use of the word signals the beginning of a slippery slope. “We too were called bossy as girls,” they write, “Decades later, the word still stings and we remember the sentiments it evoked: Keep your voice down. Don’t raise your hand. Don’t take the lead. If you do, people won’t like you…As girls become women, the childhood b-word – bossy – is replaced by the b-word adult women face – along with aggressive, angry and too ambitious. The words change but their impact doesn’t. Women are less well liked when they lead, and all of us are affected.”

Aha, see, right there is the problem. And it’s not the word ‘bossy’. It is the fact that women want to be ‘liked when they lead’. Men, on the other hand, don’t give a damn about how much they are liked or disliked so long as they get to lead. And that, in itself, gives them an enormous advantage over their female counterparts. On one hand, you have a gender that has a take-no-prisoners attitude when it comes to wielding power. On the other, or so Sandberg would have us believe, is a gender that is so fragile that just the use of a single adjective is enough to make its members curl up and die.

It is this sub-text that I find truly troubling: that even powerful, successful, ambitious achievers like Sheryl Sandberg feel the need to treat young girls like fragile flowers who must be protected from the hails and storms of a misogynistic world. And the belief that women are somehow still wary of taking the lead on things because they fear being seen as less feminine and more of a threat.

The only thing that gives me cause for optimism is that I suspect little girls are not half as fragile as Sandberg seems to think. Well, let’s take Sandberg’s own case. She tells us that she grew up being called bossy, and those memories still hurt. And maybe they do. But take a good look at her now: the little girl who grew up being called ‘bossy’ is the woman who’s now the big boss at Facebook. So, what harm did that b-word do to her? None, as far as I can see.

I suppose this is where I confess that I grew up being called ‘bossy’ as well. And, truth be told, I still have the b-word thrown at me by most of my friends and family. Does it hurt? Not a bit. Would I like it banned? Not a chance. I would much rather own it.

Cut and (blow)dry

Why do women have such a complicated relationship with their hair?

It says something about Beyonce’s superstar status that even so mundane a thing as getting a new – albeit drastic – haircut sparks off a worldwide debate. It began when the singer posted a picture on Instagram, premiering her new gamine crop. Gone were the flowing, teased into curls, golden tresses. In their place was a punishingly short pixie haircut that perfectly set off her sculpted cheekbones and taut jawline.

With a certain predictability, the social media universe went into meltdown, with fans debating the merits and demerits of the new hairstyle on Twitter, Facebook and the many, many fan sites dedicated to the singer. Well, everything Beyonce does creates a media storm, so why should her hairstyle choices be any different?

But the flurry of ‘Beyonce chops off hair; what does it mean?’ stories just reminded me once again just how complicated the relationship between a woman and her hair is. Nothing a woman does to her hair is ever simple. How can it be, when we are forever looking for meaning in it?

Is she tiring of her sex symbol status and wants to try out a more demure avatar? Is this a sign of her reconnecting with her masculine side? Or more mundanely, does this mean that short, gamine crops are now ‘in’ and long, flowing hair is just a little bit dated?

Well, I am guessing that for a while at least, the short crop will become the trendy choice. I am old enough to remember just what a rage the ‘Rachel’ was (with Friends fans queuing up at hair salons with photographs of Jennifer Aniston to get the same layered bob; imagine their disappointment later when Aniston confessed that she had, in fact, hated the cut). And back home in India, we still call a style that involves a short ‘fringe’ or ‘bangs’ the Sadhana cut, after the 60s actress who first popularized it.

So, it wouldn’t surprise me at all if chopping off all your hair and going really short became known as ‘doing a Beyonce’. Well, it would be way better than ‘doing a Britney’; remember Spears’ slightly crazy phase a few years back when she shaved off all hair and emerged from the salon with a completely bald pate?

But even if you exclude spectacular breakdowns like Britney’s, hair is still a good way to gauge a woman’s mood. If it looks glossy and well-cared-for, then the odds are that she is a good place. If it looks limp, dirty of unkempt, then she is probably not feeling too happy (though that bad mood may just be down to the fact that she is having a bad hair day).

And then, there is the stereotyping that all of us are guilty of at one level or another. If she wears her hair in a demure bun, she must be a behenji. That one with the purple highlights in her hair; keep her away from your sons. Short, cropped hair with not so much as a whiff of hair gel? Must be a lesbian. Long, impeccably blow-dried hair? Has to be a vain, self-obsessed, lady-who-lunches with way too much time on her hands. Oh yes, there is stereotype to go with every hairstyle.

Speaking for myself, I can chart the various phases of my life by the way my hair looked during that period. The pig-tails and braids mark the decorous schoolgirl; the long, swishy hair left open to tumble down the back are a reminder of college days and a new-found freedom; that very unfortunate perm is a reminder of my callow youth. The shorter, layered style celebrated the beginning of my professional life; the gamine crop that followed was me trying out a new persona; and the blunt bob that I sport to this day marks the moment when I truly became comfortable in my skin.

Yes, you wouldn’t think to look at it, but hair is often telling us the story of a woman’s life. The moment of teenage rebellion when she chops off the long hair her mother has spent years oiling and braiding; the drastic change in colour or style that marks the end of a long relationship; the decision to eschew hair dye and embrace the grey as a mark of the inevitable passage of years.

Ah yes, to dye or not to dye: that’s the nagging question that most of my contemporaries are dealing with right now. And the only shades of grey in this debate lie in the roots of our hair; otherwise it is all very black and white. The no-dye lobby insists that this is the way to grow old: gracefully, with dignity, and with every white root on display. The dye-hard brigade scoffs at this defeatist attitude and promises that it is not going down without a fight (and some lovely highlights for good measure). Good hair, they proclaim, is worth dyeing for.

As for me, I am not ready to go grey yet. Or abandon the safety net of my bob. Or even give up the extravagance of having my hair professionally blow-dried. Because, like most women of my acquaintance, my self-image is inextricably tied up with my hair.