Bad Hair

My hair was bad. It was mischievous, arrogant, and disobedient. I’d tried every sort of shampoo they sold in stores. The ones whose advertisements carried the adjectives “Smooth and silky”, “Soft and Manageable”, “Strong and Supple”. They didn’t work. My hair still fell out, refused to be combed, changed colour, was dry and frizzy, and at times wet and oily, too. Nothing worked. My hair was incorrigible.

I wanted to discipline it my hair. Make it do the things I wanted. Stay combed, or even just be combed. I should be the master and it the slave. But now, I was running from place to place, taking the weirdest of advice (including a friend who told me to drink a solution of two drops of turtle blood in a bottle of whisky once a week), and shelling out all my money just for this rag on my head.

I had immense faith in dermatologists. They gave me medicines that I knew would work. I was, of course, eventually proven wrong. I kept going back to the dermatologists, knowing that sooner or later my hair problem would be solved. After all, the working theory with doctors is quite simple. Don’t expect your ailment to be cured immediately. The doctor doesn’t want it to be cured immediately. He wants to prolong it, but keep it from getting worse, so that you keep going back to him for treatment. After the doctor thinks that you’ve spent enough of your time (and money, of course) with him over this problem, he’ll cure it in no time. In this manner doctors do business and “an apple a day keeps the doctor away” couldn’t be more wrong. The truth would be something closer to “For a very hefty pay, health problems are kept at bay”.

This principle didn’t really bother me too much. After all, doctors did eventually solve the problem, and all doctors did work by the principle (at least every one I knew), so I didn’t have much of a choice. I had even less of a choice when the dermatologists didn’t help. I knew that they were stumped, and the solution had to lie elsewhere. If there was a solution. I believe that every problem has its solution, only that you may not find the solution in your lifetime, and the problem will die with you. This was what I feared was the case.

When I almost gave up hope, a friend of mine suggested that I go see a hair doctor. I laughed. I said that there was no such thing. But my friend insisted. Then she gave me the number and address of a hair doctor who lived nearby. She said it was awfully lucky and coincidental for me to live so close to a hair doctor when their type was such a rarity. After much persuasion, I finally agreed to go see this doctor.

His name was Crovon Vleebashq. Sounded vaguely Russian. I really wouldn’t know. Maria Sharapova didn’t sound half as strange. His clinic was small but well-maintained. There was a large hollow plastic board that held a tube-light inside, illuminating the words on it that said “CROVON VLEEBASHQ, M.D. All sorts of hair problems cured”.

With an air of scepticism, I entered the clinic, and took an appointment with the receptionist. There was no one else waiting. She told me to wait until the doctor could see me. I took the seat facing the doctor’s door, next to the stack of magazines. I picked up the September issue of Weekly Follicle. I flipped through it, not quite looking at what was in the magazine. I caught the glimpses of ads that said “Jeebo Shampoo: The tastiest shampoo you ever tasted” and “Let your hair feel the rich, luxurious, foamy lather you get only with Tuttlebluttle shampoo”. I flipped all the way to the last page, looked at a detailed diagram of the cross-section of a strand of hair, and then flipped back to check if Tuttlebluttle shampoo contained any Turtle Blood or Whiskey.

I didn’t find out, because just then, Dr. Vleebashq opened his door and shouted “NEXT!” looking straight at me. I put down the magazine and proceeded into his office.

I had made up my mind that this doctor would not be able to help me. He would first sit in front of me, ask me what my problem was, look at it, rub his chin, give me some advice, and then give me a prescription for a bunch of medicines that would not help me in any way, and then charge me my wallet.

But I was wrong (about some things). He wasn’t like a usual doctor. He didn’t even ask me what my problem was. Once I sat down in front of him, he leaned forward, and painfully (for me) pulled out a hair from my head. I made it quite obvious that I wasn’t pleased.
He took that strand of hair and he played with it. He looked at it in the light, he pulled it, he folded it, he ran his finger over it, and then broke it into two pieces.

“Did you see anyone about this before me?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What kind of a doctor did you go to?”
“A Dermatologist. Four of them, in fact.”
“Ah.”
I waited for some further comment from him. He just kept toying with my strand of hair.
“So?” I said.
“Well, dermatologists can only deal with your scalp problems. They think that since the hair arises from the scalp, all its problems should arise from there, too. Ha! Bhongu Thalayas! They think they know everything because of one degree.”
“Since that occurred, do you really have a degree?”
“Never mind that. What I was saying is that your problem has nothing to do with the scalp, it has to do with the hair. It is a completely different science altogether.”
“But hair is just dead cells.”
“You see, technically, what you say is true. Every cell is dead. But the entire mass of hair is in fact a very living thing. When people say that their hair has a life of its own they are not exaggerating or joking. Everybody’s hair has a life of its own. It’s just that some of these lives are more rebellious lives, so they make their presence more felt.”
“So, is my hair rebellious?”
“Oh, terribly. Your hair is so rebellious that it goes to extreme lengths to grab attention. It even does things like commit suicide.”
“Suicide?” I asked, in a very un-surprised tone of voice. This guy was trying to feed me more and more codswallop.
“Yes. It damages itself, it stops taking nourishment just so that it gets attention.”
“I’ve given it lots of attention. What could it possibly want? More attention? How on Earth and in what form am I supposed to give it more attention?”
“Aah, Hair Psychology. I did a paper on that once. A very interesting field… lots of new talent springing up in Hair Psychology.”

At this point, I thought that I ought to write a paper on Hair Doctor Psychology. This guy was psycho. He was mental. He was deranged. He was making me want to call the mental hospital.

I got up, shook his hand, ruffled his “lively” hair, and, much to his surprise and dismay, walked out of his clinic.

As I walked out of the clinic, I looked up at “Dr.” Vleebashq’s board that carried an “M.D.” after his name, and shook my head.
I also reminded myself to call my friend and thank her for her wonderful recommendation.
*
I looked in the mirror contemplatively, picturing myself after the process. I nodded and said “Take it all off.”
And the Barber began.