Bald and Bold but surely not Old!

Age is but a number. Getting old is ordained by the laws of nature, but feeling old is a choice. I follow this dictum and declare I have succeeded in my refusal to feel old even as the numbers tick on. Conveniently, while memories of “youthful indiscretions” are completely erased, happier memories of life as a youth remains fresh. This takes me back to my school days and my friend Rajagopal. He used to write articles and one-act dramas for the school magazine. Once he wrote a short skit for mono acting, to be presented on the annual day — a day when all the students and teachers assembled signifying the end of one year of togetherness and heralding the next. Looking forward to new students and new teachers, while bidding goodbye to many who would be leaving. A day the students looked forward to eagerly. There would be a chief guest who would give awards to meritorious students. Drama and dance were the usual attractions.

Rajagopal’s skit showed a person waxing on how being bald indicated maturity and wisdom. As the actor, I was to quote names of famous bald men like Winston Churchill, Khruschev, Mahatma Gandhi, Jawaharlal Nehru and many more, including our own English Teacher and the Headmaster of the school, both sporting shining pates. I had to wear a wig to cover the crop of hair on my head, a pair of spectacles, hold a stick in my hand, and walk around the stage expressively, mentioning the attractions of a bald pate.

I was hesitant and told my father, who laughed and pushed me to go ahead. He taught me how to walk across the stage mouthing the words that Rajagopal had written, with firmness and a twinkle in the eye, loud enough to impress the audience, mostly teachers and students, and some parents. Father asked me to keep eye contact with one or two people in the audience, preferably the teachers or the Headmaster, and to speak boldly without any hesitation. I did as he advised. The skit was over and there was a loud applause. The Headmaster and the Chief guest spoke. During the prize distribution, I was caught by surprise when a special prize was announced for the mono acting. I hadn’t expected that. I went up on the stage to collect my prize — Tagore’s Gitanjali. I opened the book and a paper was pasted inside, stating “Prize awarded to R S Vaidyanathan for Histrionic Talents”. I looked at my English Teacher who was standing beside the Headmaster. His fingers were tapping his bald pate. Rajagopal was excited and thanked me profusely. Removing my wig, I smiled at those around. Little did I know what was in store for me in the future as I ruffled my hair.

After finishing my studies, I landed a job, and my working life started in earnest. My parents wanted me to get married, and eventually I fulfilled their wishes when I met my beautiful partner. Our years were filled with joy and happiness. Then one day when I was thirty-five or so, I stared at my receding hairline in the mirror. Am I getting bald!!!? I called my wife and showed her. She gave me a nonchalant look and made no comments. I was anxious and went to a homeopath, who decided the receding hairline is due to alopecia, for which he prescribed some pills. When I showed my balding head to my parents, they said it was hereditary and was a natural phenomenon. A flurry of advice came from all near and dear ones with the final word “don’t worry”. My in-laws also touted the natural phenomenon theory. My wife’s grandmother, over eighty years of age, declared “He is young and at this age, hair recession can be controlled. Cut some white onion and rub it on the hair and pate… get fresh white hibiscus flowers and rub the petals on the head… his hair will start growing back in no time”. My wife agreed. She was her grandmother’s favourite grandchild. I sat on a chair meekly, as my wife rubbed the white onion and hibiscus petals, diligently for over three months, as a daily ritual. I bathed with oil applied to the head after the floral activities. Months flew past, but the cells inside the head, grey or black, failed to respond as the hairline receded further and a shining bald pate was showing up.

As is my usual habit, I accepted the situation with equanimity. I remembered Rajagopal and convinced myself that balding is a sign of maturity and wisdom. By this time, I had progressed well in my professional life and reached a position of trust and responsibility. I was in a private corporate company and was appointed as Director. I attributed this achievement to my “maturity and wisdom” and thanked my shining top. As I ran my fingers over my pate, I looked at the Chairman whose bald pate was almost competing with mine in its shine, and derived some happiness. I too patted my pate with nimble fingers.

Life moved on and I entered my nineties in good health and joy, my wife with me, and the children and granddaughter all grown up. I don’t miss any opportunity in telling them of my “Histrionic Talents” and the temporary trauma that followed the start of my balding. Zoom to 2026 — enter Black seed kalonji oil which my daughter bought. I applied it liberally on my head and felt a cooling effect immediately. I was impressed and called for an encore. Days passed and when I looked into the mirror one day I saw my sideburns sprouting new growth of hair as well as the eyebrows! I felt a mild itching sensation on my bald pate and took it is as a sign of growing hair. Was the hair on my face showing signs of faster appearance — a beard perhaps! My granddaughter who has come home on vacation, seeing me after almost a year, declared that she sees wisps of hair on my shining bald head. Hope never dies!!!

I have firmly established that age is just a number. Ageing is mandatory, but feeling old is absolutely voluntary. Life is a merry go round — make it or mar it — it is your choice.