I was working on my desk one fine day when I ran smack into my elder sister’s friend I hadn’t seen in a few years.[break]
”I almost didn’t recognize you,” she said. “You look thin, frail and tired. And oh, what happened to your hair?” So that’s what it feels like to be old.
Sometime around last year, I noticed my first grey hair. By the time I began riding my bike and running on the treadmill religiously to escape that particular phase in your life when your back begins to hurt each time you spend three hours in a movie hall, more grey hair began to show up mysteriously.
I would go to bed and wake up with a few more gone the next day.
I was even beginning to compare my hair with the anchors on CNN who I suspect always wear dark suits only to match their hair.
By then, I was also getting used to the jokes about balding and ageing, apparently supposedly funnier when both of them are made in relation to one another.
The thing is, I had never considered doing anything about my now fast-ageing hair, partly because I never believed in spending so much money on my neighborhood Thakur and partly because no matter what specific hair designs I asked of him, he would be cutting my hair exactly the same way since the last 31 years.
But after closely watching the late night show on CNN that left me embarrassed, and after deciding that no matter how much I’d try, my grey hairs would never be so neat and fitting as George Clooney’s. So I decided to call Thakur to do something about my hair.
Thakur runs and pretty much lives in the Popular Hair Cutting Salon down the lane from my house. He’s been there ever since I can remember, from the time when he used to place an extra cardboard on the chair so that my height would measure up to his scissors.
Now both of us wear Converse shoes and chat about the increasing costs of living while he cuts my hair. That and the neighborhood tittle-tattle.
Thakur listened to my genuine complaint for a while with a look on his face that of a man who had seen it all and suggested a method of disguise.
Then he proceeded to cut my hair very short. It was either that or I had to dye my hair, which I flatly refused. So he proceeded to put on “number 2” on the machine and began running it all over my head while I spent the time idly reading the past month’s subscription of GQ magazine.
In about 15 minutes, when the haircut and a much adored oily massage were over, I paid 100 bucks and left, feeling groovy.
Unfortunately, the confidence lasted all of 30 minutes. As I got into my car to drive to work, I caught my own reflection in the rearview mirror. I no longer resembled my father, or Andre Agassi, even though I’m grateful my wife’s prettier than Steffi Graf. I instead saw an almost bald-headed me.
Over the next few days, I found myself avoiding certain social obligations. When I did go, I made it a point to choose certain seats in the room so that the light would not betray me.
And then one night just before I got into bed, and as I stared into a mirror, it finally occurred to me that while I didn’t look younger, what I looked like was me.
Or at least my brain’s bewildered version of me. And then I realized that I actually liked the look.
Because, true to Thakur’s prediction, while I did get a few vague comments like “Have you lost weight?,” not a single family member or colleague at work cracked any bald jokes.
And that alone was worth the 100 bucks in 15 minutes.
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