A few years ago, I was at the salon getting a haircut when the hairstylist suddenly announced that a clump of my hair was missing.
“What do you mean it’s missing?” I turned around to glare at him. “Did you chop it off by mistake?”
He stuck his tongue out, tips of his ears turning red. “No Madamji, I did nothing of the sort. It is not there only.”
“What do you mean it’s not there?” I couldn’t believe my ears. It was there this morning. Where on earth had it vanished?
Seeing my face turn purple, the young lad hastily fished out a mirror and positioned it behind my head. I watched with horror as he flicked aside a few strands to reveal a shiny bald patch.
“It’s a keera (worm), madamji,” he said consolingly. “It ate up your hair. You need to rub a paste of onion and garlic on it for a month and your hair will grow back.”
I wasn’t about to rub masala mix on my scalp! I was a human not tandoori chicken. I got up from the chair, paid my bill in a hurry and rushed to my doctor’s clinic in the floor below the salon. She examined my scalp, listened to my rant calmly and told me that I had alopecia. The clump of hair had fallen out possibly due to stress and there was an alarming possibility that more hair would vanish.
She told me to apply Rogaine for a month. My hair would grow back soon. Only I had to be mindful while applying the solution. One false move and I would turn into Thomson and Thompson from the Land of Black Gold.
It was either that or Persis Khambatta from Star Trek. I didn't have much choice.
Thankfully, a few days (of Rogaine) later, the missing hair reappeared. I was relieved. Not just because the hair grew back. I was beginning to tire of the Rogaine drill. I wouldn’t have minded going bald if that meant not having to fuss over my hair.
Which made me wonder why men go through the ordeal of dressing up their bald pates with transplants and ridiculous looking toupees. Or even endure the Rogaine ritual. Why don’t they own their receding hairlines? It’s only hair. Hair today, gone tomorrow.
