|
|
|
September 16, 2004
Hair blues
At the young age of 32 he became totally bald. Syed Haris Hassan writes about the conflicting thoughts he had while deciding to get a hair transplantation
I have never got a worse offer than the one I got from Dr Hari. His implicit question was whether I would prefer to be bald and poor or hairy and rich. At 32, baldness has reared its ugly head and made my life miserable.
Ever since I bought a motorcycle, Mani, my neighbour, has become unusually friendly. He always seems to be around whenever I start my bike to go somewhere. It does not usually matter to him where I am going, as Mani always needs a lift. I do not mind his company. He is bald, too!
Dr Hari Narayan, the celebrity hair transplant guru, runs a posh clinic. His receptionist welcomed me like I was her shiny-skulled knight in armour. She seemed both sympathetic to my hairless misery and excited for me. She also hinted at our meeting up after I had my head full of hair again. I was told to wait in the lobby and Mani was sitting next to me with a perplexed expression evidently impressed with Dr Hari’s posh clinic.
I was called in soon and given a slight examination after which Dr Hari declared that I was ‘clinically bald’. Impressed with the man’s quick diagnosis, I asked if I ‘needed an operation’. Dr Hari promptly presented me with a price list with four ‘combos’ each of which came with a special gift. “What could be more than the gift of hair you’re giving to me,” I said. “It’s not a gift, you have to pay,” he said. Then we both laughed long and hard: he with a joyous mirth and the sweet anticipation of becoming richer, and I with the soulless laughter of a madman.
My next task was to ask for a raise. My boss, Mr Joseph, with his horse’s mane-like hair and a horse-like habit of crushing things (namely my self-esteem), would never understand. He had once seen me laugh at a colleague’s joke who said that Mr Joseph would look like Imran Khan if he lost 100 pounds and spent Rs100,000 on plastic surgery. I always get stuck in damning situations like these. After abandoning the idea of asking for a raise, I racked my mind for an alternative.
Alas, the devil refused to buy my soul, and I was forced to sell my motorcycle. Hairy-headed professionals had a greater chance of moving in society so I would more than make up for this loss. Margaret, the boss’s elderly secretary, said I was out of my mind, but Rosy, Dr. Hari’s receptionist, said I was on her mind. It was a very difficult choice to make.
I am particularly vulnerable to seduction. It only usually takes half a flattering smile from a preferably helpless (or so they seem initially) woman to sell me anything. But this time I felt guilty and confused. I decided to seek Mani’s help for lack of a better counsel.
Mani is almost my age but is still looking for a job. His only occupation seems to be to hitchhike all over Karachi. So, as proof of my growing desperation, I called Mani who was already looking at me question-eyed (where is your bike?). He asked me why I wanted hair when nature chose to take it away. I had a guilt-produced explanatory speech ready. I insisted that it was any person’s (including any man’s) right to look good and that women had been freely exercising that right for centuries.
It was infuriating to see Mani amused at my expense. But then he made a sombre face and putting a hand on my shoulder told me a very crudely-formed tale of a man who ‘did not care’ what people thought about him. Hardly inspired, I thanked him for his sympathy, and decided to proceed with the hair implant, despite a gnawing guilt.
This incident was not the first time I had conquered guilt and proceeded with what I wanted to do. I paid Rosy in cash, had hair transplanted on my barren skull and then stepped out in the fresh air to feel my hair blowing in the wind. I also called up Rosy a few times after that, but apparently she prefers bald men.
|
|
|
|
