A Hairy-tales Fairy tale ending.

… Truly, the end of my hairy tale.

Indeed, all of 45years, and I am the walking hoarding that says, God made a few perfect heads and covered the rest with hair, of course the crab helped me achieve the perfection.

Jokes apart, my hair-raising tale began as far away in time as my early memory. Ringlets that sprouted from my scalp, was very unlike the straight thick hair that my cousin had. I remember my grandmother Singari braiding my hair with straw, or the banana bark yarn, to straighten it out. Forget the insult of the banana bark yarn; it was the entire process of combing was painful.

When I shifted Chennai to grandma-Parwati, she straightened me  I mean hair out with a simple technique chop it off, so the curls just curled up and I did not have to comb. (I have selective amnesia; I do not remember the lice stories. Let it lie in peace, making my story a perfect piece.)

Then came the tweenage, when my friend and I decided that we’ll go straight, and guess what we did, instead of ironing our shirts, we ironed….. Yes, that was followed by detention.

The curls stayed, well braided for the next few years, until they reached my hip. Of course the hair care was very very meticulous, it included, whipped egg white on Sunday, hibiscus paste alternate days, rinsing off with tea decoction.

The pay-off was the college testosterone kings humming “ghori chalona hans ki chaal ” or “oh! Hasina zulfonwalli” when I walked by.

somewhere along the journey I discovered dove, then life seemed a little less”ha(i)rresing”

Despite all the hair-care, the toll of the medical college was a bit too intense, that I grew a little taller than my hair. Like all professionals who doomed to focus on success, without understanding what it means to us, I began dating worry– a God .invisible, omnipotent. It steals the bloom from the cheek, and lighteness from the pulse, it takes away appetite and turns the hair gray,  (actually it took Benjamin Disraeli to recognise worry)

But Gray- the God’s graffiti, had become part of my life, and it did not match my persona.

The hairy-tale threatened to have a tragic ending, when Marcus Tullius Cicero convinced me that it was foolish to tear one’s hair in grief, as though sorrow would be made less by baldness and to let the hair in peace—of course, that called for the symbol of peace the DOVE which flew into my hair, for its nest and rest.

Believe me.  With the nurturing care of dove, the hair seemed to have anagen (active growth) and telogen (resting phase) as opposed to the catagen (regression) period,

Now with the crab under control, alternating hair repair and colour care dove shampoos. I my hairy tale does have a fairy tale ending… like the stories of Grandmas Parwati and Singari I can say… that was the end of my hair problems!

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