My mother knows me well. She knew I’d go bald one day. The child she saw grow up was lazy, the kind who couldnae bother to be trim and proper. When I was young, resisting my hair’s ill-fated demise, I’d let it grow long, only to be forced and dragged into the barber’s seat.
In that chair, I’d look the barber straight in the eye, stare deep into the pupils. I didn’t need my tongue to hit my teeth; the fury, the rage, the deep disgust at it all was in my gaze.
The clippers buzzed up the sides. The water, meant to soften my hair, felt deliberately sprayed on my face. Then the scissors slid across my forehead, firing my trigeminal nerve and making my brow twitch.
I could have borne it if it were quick. But they drew it out. Moving slowly.
So. Slowly.
Now, the child in that chair walks away on his own. Out in the world, he lets his hair grow. No one can drag him to the barber’s seat again.
He tells himself he never needs the barber.
In the end, neither do I.
My mother knows me well; I am still that child. Still lazy. She knew the day would come when I’d start to bald and that I’d do nothing about it. Mama, you were right. I did nothing. I never oiled my hair. I didn’t take the right medicinal combination until it was too late. And it is too late. It is always too late.
If I had known where this life would lead, maybe I’d have tried harder to keep my youth. But life is fleeting, and trying to stop it is self-defeating. I will not be reincarnated as a moth drawn towards to its own self-destruction; I shall be turned to ash.
The child is still here. But the time comes, they say, when a child must grow up, must become someone, and then accept what they have become.
A child must leave the womb.
Bald.
Scared.
Ready.
Ready to be eaten by the world.
The Crater
My head has it all to say
a crater in its clay
I’ve tried everything to make it okay
crater, I beg, go away.
I put on headphones to conceal this crime
for this is no place I can rely.
Not much to see if you look up and below,
just a spot where nothing will grow.
Oh god, I'm feeling old.
The crater grows, I've been told.
The hair sheds; the dust gathers.
Soon this will be all that matters.
One day I’ll be fully broken
but this is when I lost my only token.
Who will marry me now, with a crater on my head?
They could see it a mile away and turn instead.
But they should come and talk, you see:
this crater has no hold on me.
Testosterone, my killer.
Minoxidil, my winner.
Finasteride killed my weiner.
The barber says, “How old are you?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Twenty-two?!
What happened to you?
You’re still brand new.”
What a dick.
That prick.
It did prick.
He might be right.
Must I book that Turkish flight?
Go somewhere they transplant,
implant,
hide some smiles behind a hand,
as they sow trees in this bloody barren land.
And when I pay them with the pound,
a sum they’ve earned and found,
they’ll lift this crater from my head.
At least for now. At least until I am dead.
Veerle asked if I was bothered by going bald. My first instinct is to not show weakness, so my proud response was: "Uh, nah. Uh, maybe? Uh, yeah nah. I mean, hmm."
Those barfed-out words are pointing in the right direction. I don’t want to be bothered—just love yourself, bro. But I am. I wish I had more hair. You have to accept it, they say. But I don’t know if I have. I don’t even know if I’m bothered.
I decided to get rid of the crater. I decided to get rid of my hair.
If I went to school today, I’d be called ‘Takla.’ Hordes of classmates would run to slap my head, their supposed way of wishing me good luck. They think they have permission to touch me, that it’s okay to commit battery. Ruthlessness. There is a visceral ruthlessness Indian kids reserve for one another. We want to kill each other. We will kill each other. And I stand still, still afraid of their hands.
For so long, I have tried to love myself. But why must I? What if I don’t? What if I look at this head and feel only a sense of loss and no love? Where did my hair go? What did I do wrong? I’ve written nearly a thousand self-indulgent words searching for an answer and found nothing.
Something in me has changed. Something is present. Something is absent. Look in the mirror; I only see skin. Brown skin. I stare until my own eyes stare back from its surface. This head is a desert, glowing under the infinite sunlight of Scotland.
I was the one who shaved my head. I asked Tom to check if I missed any spots. He saw the final product and nodded. "It suits you." Everyone says it suits me; maybe they are right. But then I must become my own enemy. I am now a barber. I get to cut my own hair and determine its destiny.
And one day, this bald barber ought to learn he is beautiful.
