The patch has been there for quite some time. It is starkly visible every time I look into the mirror after a bath, but having convinced myself that it’s no reason to worry I comb in a few strands of hair to hide it. Realization dawns on me only after getting definite observational inputs from others – I am going bald!
There are only one individual of the fairer sex who consistently found me smart –my mother. Mother is blind to, or at least pretends, the problem. She gives me strong-smelling unbranded oil, which would assure me strong and supple hair.
My friends, intolerant of Mother’s smelly oil, encourage me to see a skin specialist. I consult a wide range of specialists, dishing out handsome amounts to each. A few prescribe some medicinal oil and vitamins. Few others opine that hair fall occurs when a person stays tensed for long time (as a matter of fact, I am so tense about this hair problem that it has turned into a vicious circle). Others, not so optimistic, reason that it is in my genes and I am doomed to go bald.
I am still not ready to accept the fate written on the walls of my DNA – Father has more hair at 48 than I have at 25, and none in the family tree as far as can be traced ever had a baldness problem. So I knock the doors of one of those homoeopathic clinics that make confident claims in ads printed in coloured leaflets slipped into the morning newspaper. ‘If given due time, our cure is found effective in eighty percent of the cases…’
A year and a half down the line, I find no improvement. On the contrary, hair seems to fall at a faster rate now. I give up on the medications and therapies. But it doesn’t mean that I have reconciled to my fate. Actually my attitude has changed over time. Hair loss is not a problem now because I don’t see it as a problem any longer. Why so much ado about hair? Hair is, after all, a redundant part of the body just like the appendices; that one has to go to the barber every time it outgrows.
And then, today, I find a yellow-coloured leaflet tucked inside the morning newspaper. It is an ad informing me about a hair weaving clinic set up in the city of Baroda. Instinctively, I get hold of my mobile and dial the number…
There are only one individual of the fairer sex who consistently found me smart –my mother. Mother is blind to, or at least pretends, the problem. She gives me strong-smelling unbranded oil, which would assure me strong and supple hair.
My friends, intolerant of Mother’s smelly oil, encourage me to see a skin specialist. I consult a wide range of specialists, dishing out handsome amounts to each. A few prescribe some medicinal oil and vitamins. Few others opine that hair fall occurs when a person stays tensed for long time (as a matter of fact, I am so tense about this hair problem that it has turned into a vicious circle). Others, not so optimistic, reason that it is in my genes and I am doomed to go bald.
I am still not ready to accept the fate written on the walls of my DNA – Father has more hair at 48 than I have at 25, and none in the family tree as far as can be traced ever had a baldness problem. So I knock the doors of one of those homoeopathic clinics that make confident claims in ads printed in coloured leaflets slipped into the morning newspaper. ‘If given due time, our cure is found effective in eighty percent of the cases…’
A year and a half down the line, I find no improvement. On the contrary, hair seems to fall at a faster rate now. I give up on the medications and therapies. But it doesn’t mean that I have reconciled to my fate. Actually my attitude has changed over time. Hair loss is not a problem now because I don’t see it as a problem any longer. Why so much ado about hair? Hair is, after all, a redundant part of the body just like the appendices; that one has to go to the barber every time it outgrows.
And then, today, I find a yellow-coloured leaflet tucked inside the morning newspaper. It is an ad informing me about a hair weaving clinic set up in the city of Baroda. Instinctively, I get hold of my mobile and dial the number…
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