“You know, my mom and I got talking about impotency.” said Rajkumar, the trademark mischievous look on his face. “How did that come up?” Shachi asked ever so innocently. “That’s the point – it didn’t.” I said, before Rajkumar and I burst out laughing, while realization dawned on Shachi. “My mom and I were talking about my receding hairline.” I immediately offered my sympathies, having had to undergo a similar torture not too long ago.
It’s no secret that I am, as Colin Mocherie put it, “follically impaired”. Let’s face it, I am going bald. And honestly, I have no problem with that. Well, maybe just a little bit, but then one can’t be blamed for feeling a little sad about going bald. What really gets me is how all and sundry feel obliged to help you get through what should most definitely be a difficult juncture in your life. The constant tut-tutting, the sympathetic looks, and the inevitable suggestions ranging from home remedies of applying virtually every food product on your scalp to the more ‘scientific’ methods like hair weaving, transplants, and of course, “Hair-o-max” and other similar medication.
As a kid, most people admired my head of strong and lustrous hair. My father, who was apparently “the Rajesh Khanna of his college” in his hay days, would beam proudly at me and say, “Of course, he gets it from my family. I was the only one in my college whom my principal didn’t ask to get a haircut. Even he was in awe of my hair.”
Obviously, it irritated him to no end that I insulted the God given gift of amazing locks by cutting them very short. The very mention of a haircut was enough to get his blood boiling. Even if it was 45 degrees of scorching heat in the typical Dubai summer. “But dad, it’s so hot outside! My hair itches from sweating like crazy. And besides, my hair is curly and it never stays in place.” “You should learn how to comb your hair. Let me work on those beauties.” After what seems like eternity, and using an array of weapons ranging from the hair dryer, hair sprays, an assortment of combs and God knows what else, he gets my hair glued to my scalp and takes a step back to look at his handiwork. “Ah, there you go. A true work of art, even if I do say so myself. If only I…”
“AAAAAAAAAAA!!!! What on earth is that???? Oh please, do not subject our son to such cruelty!!” My mom came running into the room, with a look on her face that can only be described as one of pure horror. I looked at the mirror and realized why. My hair would single-handedly put me in contention for the most ridiculed boy in school. Actually, there would be no contest. I would win hands down. Thankfully, before this potential nightmare would be realized, my mom ensured I got a haircut at the earliest.
The recession came once I moved to Chennai. I’m not sure what it was – the intense heat, the really bad water, dandruff, or just plain heredity. Whatever it was, once the first hair hit the ground, what followed was just pure freefall. Day after day, I watched helpless as the hairs migrated from my head to my t-shirt, and more of my scalp was exposed to the world. But even then, I wasn’t overly concerned.
It wasn’t until one of my visits to Dubai that this ‘problem’ was addressed. My dad took it quite badly that his son was losing hair – and even worse – didn’t even bother to find out ways to overcome it. I would hear him muttering “Not even remotely worried that he will soon be bald. How will his future shape up?” I thought it best not to bring up the various concerns I had with his cribbing statement, lest I open Pandora’s Box. My mom was also wrought with grief, though she tried her best to hide it. “It’s hereditary. You’ve got it from my family”, she said, her face guilt ridden. I tried my best to pacify her and my dad, but between disappointment and guilt, my parents were quite inconsolable. It wasn’t until I agreed to see a dermatologist that some sanity ensued.
After avoiding the matter for as long as I could, I finally paid a visit to the doctor. The doctor, who had a fine head of hair, looked intently at the edges of my hairline. “You have type-A male baldness”, he said, “Most common kind of baldness”. Like being part of the most happening baldness club was supposed to make me feel better. “As for the treatment, I can prescribe some hair ointments and tablets. However, you have to be extremely regular. And you must take quite a few precautions for your hair.” I did not like this, but gave a sigh and nodded. The sacrifices one has to make. “I’ll do my best. Whatever it takes, I guess.” The doctor hesitated slightly. “Er, there is one more thing. Of course, it is a very rare thing – in fact, the rarest of rare, if you will.” He laughed nervously. “But ….”
I got out of the doctor’s office in something of a state of shock. My train of thought was interrupted by a call from my mom. “I just met the doctor about my hair; rather the lack of it.” “Oh finally! What did he say?” “He suggested some medication, but there is just one thing.” “Oh, what is it? Please don’t come up with some silly excuse to avoid this.” “The baldness is caused by excessive testosterone production in the body. There is a very rare possibility that the medication, which reduces this, can cause impotency.”
The silence that ensued spoke louder than words. After what seemed like an eternity, my mom finally spoke. “Let’s just wait a bit on the medication. Probably not the best time to start.” I hastily agreed, sure that this would be the last discussion on the topic. Some things are just way more important.
I have gotten a tonsure multiple times. While it wasn’t a dress rehearsal for my future as a bald man, I realized that I don’t look too bad with a clean head. And it does feel free. But then, not too many people share my opinion. They instead take it upon themselves to try and steer me away from my impending doom, from a fate worse than hell itself. Little do they realize that they are actually pushing me further towards it, ‘cause I’m about to tear out my hair in frustration.
