Random Ramblings of a Reluctant Blogger

The other day I ran into a friend after a long time. During our chat he suddenly noticed my hair and asked “looks different , have you coloured it,?” Before I could reply the conversation topic changed and I never got to explain my hair dye saga. 

It all started when I offered myself up as a guinea pig. My wife, Lopa was scrolling through various videos on natural hair dyes and hair growth. Not that she is averse to her salt and pepper look, it was that as long as she was a school teacher she, perforce, had to keep the greys from showing. And after a few attempts with the dyes in the market, which resulted in hairfall, she shifted to natural, as they say dadi-ke-nuske, homemade dyes, the mehndi and the indigos.

But now, post retirement and no compulsions to have a particular look, she however, was keen on experimenting with a particular natural remedy. And that is where, ever being the good and supportive husband, I stepped in. “why don’t you try it out on me, if it works fine, or else there is nothing much to lose,” I said, referring to my more-salt-less-pepper, fast approaching hereditary balding coiffure. Without a strand of hesitation she grabbed the offer.

What, however, I did not reveal to her is that my hairdo had a mind of its own. Long back in the days when the long straight style was in force, my dense mane would curl up, however, hard I try. Later when wavy was the go-to fashion, straight it would grow. Subsequently I gave up and let it be its own stylist. And it thrived (Ah, those were the days my  friend!).

Fearing I would change my mind, my wife was quickly dissolving some natural products and a gooey paste was whipped and smeared all over my hair. After hanging around my properly greased hairdo for about an hour or more I washed it all and with some trepidation looked myself in the mirror. To my utter shock I saw a redhead staring at me! Were it not for my dark tanned skin I would have been mistaken for an Irish. What was even more disconcerting was my wife was enjoying my predicament. Every time she looked at me she flashed her Cheshire cat smile, pleased with her result. It was only when I threatened to stop stepping out of the house till the colour disappeared she relented. “Ok tomorrow I will try out my old formula,” she said.

So the next day once again I went through the rigmarole and with prayer on my lips went back to the mirror. The redhead was gone, but black was still not on. “Wow. burgundy,” Lopa exclaimed. “Parlours charge heavily for  this particular shade, some die for this shade. Looks good on you,” she added, the Cheshire cat smile once again lighting up. I am not colour blind, but certainly am colour-challenged when it comes to describing it. My range stays within the seven-colour spectrum red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo and violet. So I cannot describe the burgundy, and certainly not shades of it. All  I could tell was this was certainly a big improvement on the redhead. Shades of burgundy battling with blacks not wanting to let go of their territory, and maybe an occasional silver sprouting to make its presence felt.

 And it was this colour my friend noticed.  Emboldened by the results, Lopa now has pencilled in the next week for another experiment and if you see a almost-balding man with psychedelic coloured tuft, remember it is not just a style statement, it is for a noble cause.