In Loving Memory of My Hair

When compared to my classmates, I took the longest to get used to school. Initially, I was petrified at the thought of leaving my mom and being alone for a few hours. Honestly, I'm even surprised that the teachers were able to drag me away from my mom and put me in the classroom. No exaggeration, putting me in class was a Herculean task. I would hold on to my mother like my life depended on it and begged her to not send me away. I would cry and scream and hit whistle notes that would put Mariah Carey to shame.

I took some time but I finally changed for the better. The most exciting part of school back then was making new friends. Whenever someone new came in, I made sure to be friends with them.

One day, a new classmate made an appearance. Naturally, I was ready to be friends. But she cried. Again, I, of all people, understood the tough situation she was in way too well. The first day of school can be scary. She was probably stressed, missed her parents or was just sick.

Fast forward to a few years later and I find out the ugly truth. She didn't cry because she missed her mom and dad. Nope. She cried because she saw me. She cried because of my HAIR. Was my hair that intimidating?

When I was younger, my hair was in peak condition. It was soft and silky. At the same time, it was sharp and spiky. I was renowned for my unique hair.  Literally, everyone and anyone would touch my hair if they could. Not going to lie, it was irritating at first but I grew to love the attention. I was called names like porcupine and hedgehog. One child came to the conclusion that my hair was like that because I drank Horlicks. Taller. Stronger. Sharper. Ring any bells?

Some people wanted to know the secret behind the splendidness of my hair and why it didn’t need any managing. Truth is, there wasn't any. Shampoo was not responsible. Heck, I didn't even know what conditioner was. I was just born with it. 

Going to the barber was [and still is] a pain and I mean it. Whenever I went out to get a haircut, the barber would look at and handle my hair as it were some substance from outer space. They would look at me and think, “What is this weird-looking specimen?” The worst part is convincing the barber to cut my hair short. I’m not big on Mohawks and other trendy styles. I like to keep things short and simple. The barbers never listen to me though. Each time they think they’re done, I have to convince them to cut my hair shorter. It’s stressful man. “Please use the number one blade,” I say. Nah. They always end up using the machine blade I don’t ask for. It’s also likely that these barbers know what kind of haircut I want. They just don’t cut my hair ultra short so that I can keep coming back and they can get their coin. I always go for short haircuts because my hair can give bamboo a run for its money in terms of growth rate. Speaking of haircuts, I’m glad I got one just before the lockdown was imposed. Many can’t relate.

Now, why that title? No, I’m not bald. My hair is just no longer the same. It doesn’t cooperate with me anymore. Sad really. It’s lost its bounce and shine. Shampoo and conditioner aren't doing anything. I’m tired. I hope I’ll get to relive my heydays. I miss the days when I was called a hedgehog. I’d rather be called an animal than be associated with the scum of the planet, us humans.

For those of you who are wondering, I’m doing fine during this quarantine. Things seem to be okay. Don’t worry about me. I’m totally sane. Totally sane.