The Hindu Business Line : Hair raising experience

Lately, one realised that one is the baldest early morning walker on Linking Road, Borivili. This hurtful thought came a few mornings ago when from a passing school bus there was a chorus from school going kids: “Arey, takloo uncle (Bald uncle)”, as if one belonged to a family of bald eagles.

One could do nothing but laugh as kids are well, kids; now, one takes the precaution to avoid school buses packed with kids though it is hard as Linking Road is crowded with school buses at 7 in the morning.

One heard my granddaughter, Shreya, recently telling her mother in Marathi, “Ajoba, takloo ahe” (Grandfather is bald) while her younger sister, Chiyu, clapped in commendation. One related the happenings at home to garner some sympathy when Rama chipped in, “What’s the problem. You were born bald. After marriage, you spent little on barber shops; rarely did you visit one.”

One has been checking out on the remarks to realise that the kids (and not my wife) were to the point – one had the least mop of hair at the top among the many who walked, ran and breathed hard in Yogic stances on Linking Road. There is one gentleman who looks a beard-less version of Rabindranath Tagore with long, white flowing hair dropping to the back of his waist. He ties the thick strands in colourful ribbons while going on his meditative walks, talking to no one and looking at no one – a feat indeed. One took a chance and wished him one day, “Good morning”. He stared back coldly and one left it at that.

In search of some emendation, one dropped on the good Ayurvedic doctor Dr. Shashi Nair at King’s Circle in Matunga.

He heard me out in quiet and prescribed regular application of Akshagandhya oil, made by his brother in Palghat. “See, I cannot promise that hair will grow. There is a good chance that the countable strands of hair on your head may be around for some time more. But, tell me, why are you so hassled at the age of 63,” he asked and immediately apologised for any hurt.

With a sweep of my hand one dismissed the hurt before confessing: “Somehow, all these ads on hair growth and the way Mahendra Singh Dhoni spends time arranging his hair (when he is not applying for guns and AK-47s), have had an effect on me. Ravi Shastri requests the TV crews not to focus on the blank spot at the back of his head. ‘Please gentlemen, it hurts,’ he says and one can understand. You are better placed, Doctor. You do not have any problem, you do not have even a white strand.”

One collected a bottle of Akshagandhya oil for some Rs.160. Gentle reader, one has to report the oil has not helped and it is Rs.160 down on a monthly pension of Rs.3,000.

Long time ago, one Bombay-based company came up with a hair oil to help sprouting of strong, black hair on smooth heads resembling cricket pitches in India. The medication is not to be heard of. One has not entirely given up.

Till a couple of years ago, one sported a beard (a strong one at that) and Ravi Kant, the in-house cartoonist at Business Line, came up with one’s cartoon (one has preserved the original drawing).

The beard experiment started with the Sabarimalai season when one stuck to some tough rules for 12 days including an unshaved face. Then, it became a part of my soul – a bearded soul, if there was one – even as friends made unkind remarks. One friend was blunt enough to say that it did not add a whit to one’s personality.

“You love Old Monk rum and you look like an old monk,” taunted another. In those times, one wore a jubba over a pant and the beard gave one the distinct air of a monk , which tribe crowd TV channels in modern times.

It was a Saturday afternoon when one met an old friend over drinks at a bar in the Fort area. After consuming two pegs of gin, the lady remarked: “Please, get rid of your ghastly beard,” and the beard went in a couple of hours. But it is a bother shaving every day. One is scared to go out unshaved as most of my generation try their hardest to look like Mahendra Singh Dhoni. The worst part of shaving is the burning when the old-style alum or new-style aftershave lotion is applied. After being subject to continuous pounding by TV channels of a deodorant, one bought a bottle of aftershave (Rs 80 for 50 ml) and it has been a blunder. The lotion tears away one’s skin and its odour drives out the entire family.

“Just stop buying trash,” Rama howled the other day while one was being scalded by a dose of the asftershave. In fact, one thought of switching back to a beard and for second opinion consulted my barber for years. “Saab, aap ko daadi nahin jachega (It will not suit you),” he said, thumping one’s back as a part of the head massage. “Dekhiye saab, mera bath maniye, aap face cleaning keejiye (Just listen to me. Do a regular face cleaning ),” he added.

That will trim the pocket by at least Rs 60 apart from the dread that one’s entire monthly pension could go for refurbishing one’s head and face.

It sounded more like the $1.3-trillion rescue plan of the US government. The money will go away and the mess will continue.

When one made a deposition to Nagu, my friend from the PR world, he said, “See, you print journalists are genetically uncouth.

I know you for 30 years and never did I see you sensibly attired. In that sense it is good watching TV channels with the ladies and gents stylishly attired. Just see what a TV job has done to your old print colleague Ruki. That’s it. You will look worse with change.” Nagu did make sense.

It reminded one of my friends, G.Krishnan in Palghat who once told me, “When my wife shouts at my shoddiness, I rush out to watch birds on the veranda. When they squawk, I go back to my wife. The shoddiness remains.”

That fine naturalist E.H. Aitken says in his book – Zoo in the Garden – “We are all moulded by the conditions of our life. Men of the same trade in different countries will show similar traits of character, or even a similarity of feature, in spite of all the national divergences.

The Koli women of this coast are distinguished from the women of all other castes by a volubility of vituperative eloquence which betrays at once that they are ‘fish-wives,’ and the barber is the town gossip here as in Europe.”

P. Devarajan