Often hair colors are associated with maturity in our part of the world. Quite interestingly somebody whose has lost much of his hair is considered an intellect. Using the pronoun “his” makes me gender insensitive and representative of a male dominated society but baldness prominent in male are not often a trait associated with the womankind. In my own little world woman with short hair i.e only based on their outer look define the women version of the intellect. Yes, that is too narrow a thought but a honest insight into my split second interpretation.
Growth is a natural phenomenon and we all tend to celebrate it one way or the other. As I prefer to put it growth in its most thoughtful terms is a transition from our current expectation to actual manifestation of those expectation, which of course has it deviance attached. Once in a while I have commented on white hair often in light humor but that does not keep me aloof. There’s single white hair stemming just above my right ear. My mother gladly says that its a sign of my maturity but deep within I know that I don’t need a white hair to tell me I have become relatively thoughtful.
Some nine years back when I paid last respects to my father in one cold winter morning I transited from being a child to a mature man. The period of transition might have taken few minutes so my self proclaimed state of maturity might have its flaws because it did not undergo that natural process of change in color of the hair. Today I came across my cousin brother who is in his early forties. His mother in intensive care unit and next 48 hours are critical. He has seen life more than I do but look on his face was suggestive of his ill preparedness with the situation, lost ,shaky , like somebody who lost in umbrella in rainy afternoon, taken by surprise as as if seeking a warm corner replicating the arms of his mother which to me was manifestation of the child within.
The sense of insecurity brought about by the situation makes me realize that outer presentation of maturity as manifested in something like the hair are camouflages protecting and embracing the child within. In between the tale of two hairs our lives will have lived a thousand deaths and the child within.