Graying gracefully

I often wonder why lesser mortals like us should make frequent visits to salons...

Bollywood superstar Amitabh Bachchan was once queried by a curious journo on the contrasting colours of his hair and beard. The hair was jet black and the beard wholly grey, not even a blend of salt and pepper. Without batting an eyelid, Big B let the cat out of the bag by revealing that the colour of the hair came straight from the bottle while the beard was au naturel.

Of course, given the compulsions of his profession where his looks hold the key to his longevity on the big screen, Bachchan Sr can be excused for patronising hair dyes that seek to camouflage age and present a mirage of eternal youth. But I often wonder why lesser mortals like the rest of us should follow suit and make frequent visits to salons or – if you are the frugal type that cuts corners – close all the doors and windows of your house, retreat to a corner with brush and paint and proceed to apply the same to an ever thinning scalp. It is a pathetic sight to encounter erstwhile colleagues with very sparse vegetation in the top storey emerging from a tryst with the hairdresser after a copious application of the guarantor of youth.

As I am a tall guy, I often glance above their shoulders and at the pate endowed with thin strands of hair like blades of grass in an Arabian desert and discover, to my horror, black paint splashed all over the scalp. It was a shoddy job alright, but you can hardly expect the man handling the operation to pick up each strand of hair and apply the dye to it especially when there are others in the queue waiting for similar hair jobs.

I have often enquired from my ageing friends how they can expect to pull the wool over the eyes of the people merely by sporting black hair. The ageing process might start with the appearance of white streaks but it hardly stops there. Wrinkles appear from nowhere, a few teeth just get swallowed or are summarily ejected, the jawline begins to sag and the sprightly gait turns into a laboured walk with frequent stops to regain your breath. And last but not least, all those excesses of youth also leave their imprint in the form of a beer belly that hangs out like a clothesline and precedes you as you prance along.

So, with all these telltale signs of youth and middle age bidding adieu and dotage threatening to take over, is there any real necessity to hide the fact that you have taken membership of the old boys’ club. And, mind you, this is no idle preaching. My hair is as white as snow and I intend to keep it that way till the Maker’s call comes and off I go in search of the pearly heights of heaven.

Till then, is it not enough if your grey cells keep working overtime, your intellect is in top gear, all the bones are in shape, you have enough vision in your eyes to see the beauty of nature unfold every morn, sharp ears to hear the chirping of the birds, a sense of smell that can catch the aroma of fresh rasam brewing in the kitchen, you can take your coffee cup to your lips without your hands shivering  like an aspen leaf in a winter storm and your better half still looks lovingly at you after several decades of wedlock?

Count your blessings, man, and let there be a spring in your step always. If need be shave your head clean like Yul Brynner in The King & I or Telly Savalas in Mackenna’s Gold. And to cap it all, there are caps of every size, shape and colour available in the market right outside. Don one, whistle your favourite tune and drive the blues away forever.