Recently I’ve perceived that with each stroke of my comb, a few strands of my hair get uprooted from their hitherto secure ground. The discovery has thrown my wife into a tizzy and she has been frantically scouring the shops across the city and every available pulp health magazine for hair-fall remedies. My head has become a testing ground for a variety of concoctions and potions composed of powdered herbs, extracted oils, minced shrubs, pastified gooseberry and the ubiquitous raw egg (rotten ones serving the purpose equally well according to her theory, and preferable as they work out cheaper). Though I have dutifully submitted to all these experiments – assuming of course that I have a choice in the matter in the first place – my heart is not in it. For one, I believe that all this propaganda about unfailing cures for baldness is a lot of balderdash. Certainly if the delectable Katrina Kaif sells me a miraculous hair-fall shampoo on television with a charming smile on her face, I will buy it, but I will use it only so as not to let her down – and not because I believe in the virtues of the product. Hairfall, I’ve always maintained, is like nightfall – you cannot predict when it will begin, and once it starts, there’s precious little you can do to stem the flow.
Secondly, I’m not really terrified by the prospect of impending baldness; in fact, and some folks may find this hard to believe, I’m rather looking forward to it. And this is not merely some psychological hocus-pocus about keeping a positive frame of mind in the face of impending catastrophe, but the bald truth. Here are my reasons for being upbeat about the whole business:
1) It will be a permanent riddance to all those nasty dandruff and lice problems.
2) It will give me the perfect excuse to wear a Stetson like the cowboys of the Wild Wild West, something which has been my dream since childhood.
3) It’s a widely acknowledged superstition that baldness brings fortune in its wake; certainly if you calculate the amount of money baldies save on haircuts, hair-oils, shampoos, styling gels, combs and hair-color, it is not difficult to give credit to the veracity of this claim. So my life mantra from now on will be: Bald is Gold.
4) When a woman meets a man for the first time, it is practically impossible for her to size him up. This is what she might say to herself:
“Oh, this man is so good – looking! And he is so smooth and suave. Quite a charming fellow really.” But pretty soon doubts begin to creep into her mind.
“That is all okay,” she tells herself,” But how do I know if he has what it really takes?”
She means his testosterone levels of course, and quite right is she in her skepticism; after all, her future happiness entirely depends on whether the levels of that hormone in the fellow’s veins are upto the required nanogram mark. He may be bulging with muscles all over his body, but that may be merely the result of a judicious intake of anabolic steroids. Now it is a well known scientific fact that testosterone is responsible for baldness in the male. So now if our female protagonist is sensible and well-read, her task becomes much simpler – she just needs a glance at the shiny bare pate of her suitor to correctly surmise that this fellow’s testosterone batteries are fully loaded, and she can look forward to a life of full-fill-ment with him.
To summarize this point in a catch phrase: Bald is balls.
5) Exploring this theme further, it may be recalled that the moon occupies a preeminent place in romantic art and literature since time immemorial; hence there is every chance that if a woman catches sight of a perfectly round, shiny and barren globe on a man’s shoulders she would be mooning over him in no time at all (though on the cons side it may be mentioned that werewolves might express a similar interest in your pate and your street dogs may start howling the moment they catch site of it).
6) I will stand a fair chance of becoming a model for quack baldness treatments. Remember the advertisements in magazines and newspaper where they show a sad looking glabrous fellow in one picture along with another purportedly taken 3 months later with an Adobe Photoshop manufactured thick as a jungle mop on his head, the transformation being attributed to some thaumaturgic cure?
7) I will no longer need an emergency back-up light. I will just walk into a room with my shiny noggin and “Behold! There was light”. No more will I need to hide my light under the bowl, but it shall light up the world.
8) It will be great for my practice, thanks to the widely held belief that baldness is a sign of intellectualism. My patients will finally see for themselves that I actually have a head on me. And it will be very easy for them to identify me; sample this putative conversation:
Patient 1: I have this problem with my blood pressure; it keeps shooting up like a teen’s todger. Do you have a doctor in mind?
Patient 2: I think Doctoratlarge is the one for you.
Patient 1: Oh, you mean the baldy? Yeah, I guess he is the works.
9) Considering the appalling amount of time every morning I have to spend on rubbing my hair dry after a bath, I can safely say that I will never be late for work once I become stark naked (before you jump to conclusions, let me tell you that those two words are just synonyms for bald).
10) Nobody, not even Emraan Hashmi, will ever be able to get in my hair again.
So all my future fellow baldies out there, give a head-butt to all the negativities about the state of your pate. Your bald head is not your shame, but the crowning glory of your life.