The one thing I envy my friends from Kerala is their luxurious crop of hair. I don’t know if this has anything to do with the abundance of coconut oil there, but I’m yet to see a Keralite thin at the top.
Once when Alfred Hitchcock saw someone according more than a casual look to his hairless head, he had remarked, “Once upon a time I had a lot of hair. And all three of them were black.” Bald humour, yes, but losing one’s locks is not amusing.
As I approached the forties, my hair started deserting my pate faster than rats in a sinking ship. The more I pampered them with conditioners and vitalisers, the faster they vanished. It helped that being a cop I could hide my poverty under the cap.
But on being posted to a non-uniform assignment, my uncrowning glory was out in the open. So, I did what most people my age do. I asked my hairdresser to give
my thinning hair a fashionable look. His reaction I followed in the mirror. Viewing my skull as a critic does a poor work of abstract art, said he, “mushkil hai”.
{{/usCountry}}my thinning hair a fashionable look. His reaction I followed in the mirror. Viewing my skull as a critic does a poor work of abstract art, said he, “mushkil hai”.
{{/usCountry}}In golfing terms, it meant there was not much green to work with. Adding insult to my penury, he even advised that it would do if I visited him less often. Was he trying to get me out of his hair? Taking it as a challenge I let my hair grow long.
Three months later, it was good enough, I thought, to give a second chance to the hairdresser. I went to him again. Marshalling all his art, he tried to style them into an acceptable shape. But when he had finished, I could not bear to see myself in the mirror. Dismayed, I asked him to restore my old look. This he did in no time.
As I was about to leave, Himesh Reshammiya came on screen on the TV in the saloon. His cap caught my attention for a fleeting moment. Seeing this, my hairdresser gave me an understanding look.
Pretending that I had not seen it, I beat a hasty exit.