Another Sunday. Most people dread Mondays, but me? I hate Sundays. Allow me to explain. Many moons ago, I clearly remember the teenage me spending hours on Sundays searching for hair on my face. One day, I found two strands. This was the moment I had been waiting for. I rinsed the razor I had bought in a fit of optimism a year ago, lathered the hair strands (if I had heard you laughing then as you are now, I would have killed you, make no mistake about it), then shaved them off self — importantly.
It took one-tenth of a second. I looked at the rest of my elaborately lathered face, whistled casually and began to wash the gel off. It wouldn’t come off. Have you ever tried it? My sister began to shout she needed the bathroom, I slid my hands furiously across my face. No go. Finally, I wiped my face with the nearest cloth I could find. It was my underwear. Worse misfortunes were to befall me. Clearly, my vigorous rubbing had destroyed some vital follicle-producing cells because I did not sprout any facial hair for the next six months. Not a strand.Nothing can make a teenager more panic-stricken. (Actually, having an orgasm too quickly during love-making beats that, but you need a girl to make love to. No danger of that for me.) Books on testosterone and estrogen (they sound like ancient Greek lovers, do they not? Ha! A more sinister couple was never invented) were frantically leafed through. Macho men without facial hair (none) were researched. Fatally sexy men with two strands of hair once upon a time on their face (none) were researched.
Even women with two strands of facial hair (none) were researched. Ancient Chinese potions, state-of-the-art Japanese lasers, even Rogaine was used despite its severe warnings on the bottle (Men With Only Two Hairs On your Face! Do NOT Rub This On Your Cheeks! A Horrible Death Will Ensue!!). No effect. Finally I began to use black eye shadow on my cheeks to create a stubble. Not much, just a subtle shading. Small children would point at me from across the street as they hid in the folds of their outraged mothers’ saris. Perhaps I used a tad too much.
Read more Rahul Bose columns