The
dyeing day
IT
all started with my father developing an age complex. When he got his first
born married, he didn’t feel the age syndrome. When his first grandchild
appeared on the scene he was slightly shaken and insisted on being called a
non-committal name like “Lallu”. When he retired, he said it had nothing to do
with age as he wanted more time to play tennis anyway. As a doctor, he believes
that age is a state of mind and has nothing to do with years, or grandchildren
or pension or any extraneous phenomena – so he thought till I visited him last
month after a gap of two years. He took one look at my graying hair and said, ”God!
I’m growing old.”
I could appreciate his distress as that was my
first reaction when the streaks appeared in my hair. But familiarity with my
appearance had bred acceptance. Friends and relatives had stopped reacting with
exclamations ranging from “oh, you’ve greyed“ to “you are aging fast“ to “you
look distinguished.” My husband seemed quite content with my wise look and my
sons secure in the comfort of my “maternal streaks.”
But
not father. ”You can’t go around looking this way- what will my friends think?
You make me feel ancient. You must dye your hair.” Throughout my weeks stay
with him, father harped on his growing old. At the dining table, when we were
playing cards, while chatting in the drawing room – I’d catch his gloomy
expression, his eyes dwelling on my grey hair. Even my mother intervened with a
“why don’t you do as father says? So many women do it and there’s no harm - you
get such good dyes.”
When l left, father gave me a gift wrapped box
and said “open it when you go back”. He actually looked a couple of years older
–or was it my imagination? When l got back, l opened the box and was amused to
find a bottle of hair rinse! Father had bought it from a “smuggler”.
My
filial obligations overcome my resistance and armed with the bottle, I stepped
into the beauty parlour down the street. In the evening, my husband took one
look at my bouncing black hair and exclaimed ”what have you done to yourself“ (like
I’d smeared myself with war paint). My son’s reaction was even more scathing and
our dog silky barked his disapproval. I hastily scribbled a letter to my father
asking him to go ahead and feel young again.
Later
in the evening my friend Usha called and my son who was seething with rejection
– his contention was that I was trying not to look like I was mother… without
any preamble, told Usha, ”Mummy dyed....” click and the phone went dead. Half
an hour later, there was a persistent ring and we wondered who it could be at
that hour. I opened the door to find Usha and her family who nearly swooned when
they saw me! We all had a hearty laugh when Usha explained that they thought my
son said. “Mummy died“ and had rushed to console him and my hubby. ”Thank God
only your hair dyed!“ she said , patting my jet black head.
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