Feline Musings

Each morning, I risk casualty by cardiac arrest, in the bathroom. The danger of a heart attack is caused by the sight of a bunch of hair, stuck in the bathroom faucet. No, it’s not a scene from “The Grudge” but my precious hair – black with burgundy tinge – not on my head, but on the floor, that makes me hyperventilate. I let my freshly-washed hair dry naturally, fearing that the wet and weak strands will give away easily to even the slightest tug, and I walk into office with wild, wind-dried tresses. But I am in office, and I need to look decent, not wild, so I walk into the polished office restroom and bravely wield the comb.

Bravery cannot protect one from the impeding trauma of seeing more tinted hair strands on the comb, and once again on the restroom floor. Formerly traumatized, now I am petrified, because I know that I am losing more than the 100-strands-per-day permissible quota. My loss is best doubled or tripled. I pacify myself by thinking that it’s the weather – humidity makes one lose more hair! But come winter and I will blame the nip in the air, and the dryness of the scalp for further hair loss. Summers will be answerable for the oiliness and sweatiness that make the poor head want to get some air, and in turn get rid of the ultraviolet rays absorbing black sheen of hair. Whatever be the season, the extermination of the hair, MY HAIR, seems inevitable.

I have tried it all – before-shower hot-oil/steam massage, and after-shower anti-tangle crèmes, potions and tablets, shampoos and conditioners, scalp-therapy, root-medication, and everything and anything short of a hair-transplant. Well, why not a hair transplant, you may ask! You see, I still have a decent cover of hair on my head, even if it’s not long, thick, lustrous and capable of making a lover lose himself in the intense depth of soft, sexy, supple “jhulfo-ki-chaaon.” But I wonder, how long will the cover last, and in a bid to prevent the extinction of my hair, I have resorted to the age-old therapy of head-massage or “champi” to increase the blood-flow to the hair roots and stimulate growth and strength of the hair shafts.

Twice a week, a sturdy local masseuse comes to my house and gives me the quintessential “champi” and it’s very exhilarating, for the mind, if not for the hair on my head. And she comes with her own share of tips. For instance, she downright rejected my expensive Shahnaz Hussain hair rejuvenating oil, and suggested switching over to Sesame oil. In the best of my interest, that I start using Sesame oil with immediate effect, she coaxed me into giving her the Shahnaz Hussain oil for her children!

Having been so charitable, I got on my husband’s nerves to buy me Sesame oil, since I couldn’t get it in the local market. My darling, hubby, as always ready to oblige, procured loosely packed Sesame oil from the local Kirana store in Jaipur, and transferred it into an empty Bournvita bottle and carefully packed it, for the seven-hour bumpy ride back home to Noida. The Sesame oil reached Noida, safe and sound, and I eagerly awaited my next hair-massage session. My masseuse, commented on the not-so-pure quality of the oil, yet promised me miraculous effects.

I am yet to see the miraculous effects of the Sesame oil, but I am reminded of another such real-life experiment by a colleague who desperately needed to salvage the little remaining of his hair. In his case the Sun would be perfectly reflected from the front lobe of his head, so you can imagine the horror that his life had become. Those days, I was experimenting with Castor oil to encourage my hair to show some luster. I suggested the same to him. He went home a very happy man that day. But the next day, he called me aside and said that he was having difficulty with the “hair-oiling”. I was all ears.

He said that he had a very hard time washing off the oil and in fact more of his hair had become martyr to the rigorous three-time shampooing. I sympathized and said that yes, Castor oil is sticky, so he better reduce the quantity. But he was still displeased as he said that it’s not just the stickiness, but even the smell is obnoxious. I was taken aback by this, as Castor oil is odorless. He continued that his pillow case was stained all black and greasy. I was really surprised now. Black! Castor oil is not black. I became suspicious and asked him that where did he buy the oil from. “The local petrol pump”, pat came his reply. Petrol Pump! What oil did you buy? I was more scared than surprised now. “The normal Castrol that we use in bikes”, he replied innocently, and then seeing my wide-eyed look of disbelief, he innocently asked, “Should I try another brand?” I could not use up the remaining bottle of Castor oil in my home because each time I touched it, I succumbed to loud fits of laughter.

Maybe, the incomplete Castor oil treatment is to be blamed for the weakened hair strands that I un-proudly own these days. But now that I am in the middle of the hair loss regime, I guess I should learn to live with it. Or at least adopt my hubby’s stoic approach. The last time I peered over his head and knowledgably informed him that the top of his head was displaying scanty hair-growth, he shrugged it off by saying, “Good na, now you will have a greater surface area to shower your kisses upon!” I would adopt his attitude this very moment, if only he would promise a similar love-tinted treatment when the bald patch finally manifests on my head.

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