stimulated courtesy follicles,
where Coconut, Olive, Grapeseed,
Jojoba, Amla and Vitamin E oils
allowed, enabled,
and provided head start
germinating peach fuzz into brown strands
after Flaxseeds, Pumpkin seeds and Fenugreek
being sprinkled on my scalp
yielded a bumper crop of hirsute weeds
occasionally tripping me up

analogous to hallucinogen
causing a public health hazard
warranting, necessitating, and goading me
to give shout out for stylist
to tender mine lovely brunette locks,
which might be repurposed into a wig
for patients undergoing chemotherapy,
or afflicted with alopecia,
(the partial or complete absence
of hair from areas of the body
where it normally grows; baldness).

As a knobby kneed, puny,
scrawny, wimpy kid whose,
(back in the nineteen sixties),
his parents decreed their singular
(painfully shy dorky, geeky and nerdy)
old school boy who sported a buzz cut,
which found him reacting and responding
(in short order rebelling)
passive aggressively by
refusing to bathe

until mommy dearest demanded
(well nigh upon
the bewitching hour of midnight)
to witness her son soaked
and essentially marinated
(until my skin shriveled like a prune)
in the (clawfoot) tub
lest he stink to high heavens,
and given a serious dressing down
by the timely principal Mister Clock.

Far back as I can remember,
the significance of hair
assumed an outsize role,
whether enviously eying other lads
their thick straight hank,
or nowadays bristling
with self reproach
cursed with thinning
greasy limp strands
(interspersed with gray)

experiencing shame being seen in public,
a disgrace to our family name of Wagstaff
and an embarrassment
to the human race
ofttimes associating
myself with Samson,
whereat emotional, physical,
and spiritual strength
rooted (pun intended)
within each hair shaft

(the visible part of the hair
that sticks out of the skin),
and rooted in the skin and extends
down to the deeper layers of the skin
surrounded by the hair follicle
(a sheath of skin
and connective tissue),
which is also connected
to a sebaceous gland.

I miss my mom so I try to recreate her presence with things I attribute to her: oil of Olay beauty fluid, Romance perfume, bright lipstick even if it’s the only makeup being worn, a sense of gratitude and readiness, a generous laughter, uncountable **** jokes, an appreciation of innovation and novelty, a hearty appetite for everything: life, food, knowledge, growth, and being firmly grounded in faith.

I have not found this composition of authenticity anywhere else, the perfect molecular formulation that gave shine to her eyes and confidence to her smile. And she was my mom, so I could boast and brag about any and all my achievements and she would multiply them, own them, honour them and wear them on her heart like a badge.

“Be all things that you loved about the people you’ve lost”, goes the saying. How? It’s impossible! Yet I try.

I have resorted to cutting onions freehand in circles for my salan like her, rather than the fancy crescents requiring a chopping board, (that I adopted as a statement that I was more refined and evolved than her). I used to make fun of her for tearing open her teabags as tea tasted better to her when freely floating in water. Now I’ve switched to loose tea. I readily bought amla, haritha and sikakai when I saw them in a local Indian store, though I had vehemently opposed all her attempts while growing up, to incorporate these to my hair care routine. (She had black hair at age 69 when she died. I started having grey at 27. In south Asian cultures this is a big thing). During her life, I was always rebellious to her methods. Now, I have submitted to their wisdom and simplicity.

The organic nature of life is to recycle things as they complete their turn. I cling on to my mom’s quintessence in the spirit of recycling them through me. I try to say the durood every morning as I wake up like she did, and count three good things of the day before I sleep like she did. I do everything I can as she would have liked. And I still miss her. I have even grown to love missing her, in a subterranean way , as this way she stays with me.

Today the missing has surfaced, like the supermoon of last night, causing super waves, tsunami perhaps. It will wane. With time. But love shall remain.

Arshia
31.8.23