Lock’ed’ and Losin’ It!

We had a very robust English literature syllabus while I was in school. Pope, Dylan Thomas, Matthew Arnold, Sassoon, Rupert Brooke et al.

I specially remember Pope because just reading the title of his famous long poem ‘The Rape Of The Lock’, had us all giggling like silly school girls (which we were) and also because we had totally misunderstood which lock the poem referred to.

Now, 20+ years later I know. Oh, HOW I KNOW!

The relationship that women have with their hair is quite different from the one men have with theirs. While in both cases having a good head of hair induces happiness and a good amount of vanity together, we women cannot get away with being bald. There! I’ve said it. It’s a man’s prerogative to be bald. Its something he can feel bad about but it’s not something people will look askance at. But a women having bald patches, or just not having enough hair to cover her scalp brings about reaction ranging from, “Oh you poor dear! Is it chemo?” to “Damn! these cult-types give me the creeps.”

A bald woman, unless gorgeous in her baldness quite like Persis Khambatta will have a TOUGH time getting laid; among all the other angst in store for her. It’s inconceivable for people to think of a bald woman without there being a less than extraordinary reason for it.

Male pattern baldness? Hell, teenagers know about it these days; with alopecia having become a common word in all householders’ vocabulary. But baldness doth not behoove a lady be. Erm…you get the drift.

I lost a lot of hair while I was pregnant. But a gained a cute kid so it was a sacrifice I was ok with. Thankfully he doesn’t show signs of being too light-headed trichologically speaking. And while he’s not headed into McDreamy land either, he’s just fine.

So when I started losing hair yet again, often just at the thought of combing, I began to get very truly and thoroughly sad.

The worst of it was when the offspring once came up to me with a clump of my hair that he’d rescued from somewhere saying I’d dropped it and if I wanted it or not.

I’d have drunk myself into a silly stupor had I the requisite booze around. But I don’t so I’ll just focus on thinking thick-haired thoughts and try to not comb my hair as long as it’s possible. Who knows? Maybe dreds are my thing.

*fingers crossed*

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