Earlier this week, I met a friend for lunch. We have known each other for more than twenty years and have a lifetime’s worth of things to talk about. So naturally, every time we meet we end up gossiping about other people. On this occasion, our conversation revolved around how we had not aged - figuratively, of course - as much as our peers. In making this argument, my friend cited the example of a couple of his colleagues at work who were, like us, in their mid-thirties.
All they talk about is promotions and investments and taxes and property prices, my friend scoffed. When do they have fun? When do they live?
Heady with our shared hubris, I nodded in agreement. What could be more of a buzzkill than adults acting their age?
Now you and I, my friend said, we are not old like them. We’re still young!
I raised my glass of soy-milk cold coffee to acknowledge this statement. (I have learnt, the hard way, to avoid lactose in my thirties).
They have become uncles, he said with disgust; then added with a smirk, and obviously, they are balding.
I pursed my lips and my friend realised he had stepped into delicate territory. He hastened to make amends.
I meant they are completely bald, he clarified, not just thinning up top like yo…
I grimaced as he sputtered to a stop mid-sentence. For the next few seconds, an uncomfortable silence prevailed as we took sips of our beverages and avoided each other’s eyes. I would be lying if I said I was not wounded by this unexpected assault but the moment passed. Over the years, countless barbers have commented upon the expanding crop circles on my head. (I have previously written about such barbers’ barbs.)
Time has taught me to take such attacks in my stride and make peace with my arid scalp. After all, what the Lord giveth, the Lord can also taketh away. One can accept that. But when the Lord taketh away, and then giveth back in a different location, then one begins to wonder what the hell is going on.
The first one snuck up on me a few years ago. I was at work when it happened. I was staring at my laptop screen, reading a document with a great deal of concentration and lost to the world, when I heard a gasp. The gasp appeared to have originated from the vicinity of my colleague. She ignored me as I turned towards her but there was no mistaking the look of shock and revulsion on her face. I was a little disoriented and was about to ask her what had happened when I became aware of the fact that my right hand was next to my face and my fingers were caressing a single strand of hair that had emerged - like a tenacious tendril - from the dark depths of my nostril.
My face reddened in shame and I mumbled an apology for my deviant behaviour. I hurried to the restroom and tried to wash the guilt off my fingers. I peered into the mirror to examine that villainous wretch as it curled coquettishly around the tip of my nose. I tried uprooting the monster but after a few agonizing tugs, I gave up. The pain was only partly responsible for the tears in my eyes. I spent the rest of that day with my head bowed and my spirit broken. In one fell swoop, I had become Bade Babu from Golmaal.
I took to trimming my nasal hair but I was fighting a losing battle. The more I snipped them, the more they would reappear. As the top of my head grew sparser, my nasal vegetation thrived. Oh, how the rascals thrived! Some grew to such grotesque lengths, I could have sold them to wig-makers. And to make matters worse, this hirsute bounty was not restricted to my nasal passage alone. Earlobes, eyebrows, shoulders, fingers - with every passing year I was sprouting ever-growing hair in the absurdest of places, as if the follicles in my head had embraced the YOLO spirit and decided to migrate to other regions in the hope of success.1
I was not unfamiliar with this phenomenon. I had seen many men - fathers, grandfathers, and uncles - face a similar fate as they grew older; men who would often run a shaggy hand over a shiny pate, with a wistful look in their eyes; men who had their hair taken from them and then returned to where they didn’t want it; men who had been robbed by time and mocked by middle-age. I had known these men for all my life. I was just having trouble accepting that I was now one of them.
The sound of a computer gargling interrupted my reverie and brought me back to the lunch table. My friend was making a face at the speaker hanging from the ceiling.
I cannot believe this is what people listen to nowadays, he said through gritted teeth.
I think they call it EDM, I ventured.
The speaker continued screeching and twittering, trying its best to sound like a dial-up modem from a bygone era.
A group of people standing around the table next to us were bobbing their heads to the music. They seemed to be enjoying themselves. One of them caught my eye and walked over.
Hey, he smiled at us. Would you guys mind shifting to another table? We have a big group and were hoping we could sit together.
My friend looked at me and shrugged. Sure, no problem, I smiled and nodded. We would be happy to get away from this speaker, I added with a grin.
Awesome, he replied, fist-bumping us both. Thanks a lot, Uncle!
As with so much else in the world, it turns out that testosterones are to blame.
HaHa as subtly humourous as only you can get Rohan. I will stop appriciating any more because your writing keeps getting better and better, climbing higher on scales. Every alternate Saturday is a day of education for me as i read your articles with a huge smile on my face. This smile is what keeps me freezed in age and helps me not to age further from Uncle to Oldie/ Grandpa . Keep Shining and Remain Blessed Rohan 🌹
But when the Lord taketh away, and then giveth back in a different location, then one begins to wonder what the hell is going on - too good! Hahaha.