The importance of a good hair brush

As we get older, I find that you start to reflect on what has really mattered to you, I mean really… Most people I talked to said parents, children, wife, teachers, books, music, all the usual things. But in my life what has mattered most are my three hairbrushes, the three loves of my life.

Hairbrushes? Yes, indeed hairbrushes. My hair is a cross between curly and straight, that is, naturally wavy. While curly hair doesn’t have to be combed and straight hair can be combed very easily, wavy hair is most troublesome. You can’t leave it as it is because it looks horrible and you can’t comb it because they just won’t settle down, no matter how much water or oil or cream or all three you use.

So as you can imagine I always had a struggle. It didn’t matter as long as I was in school but once in college, one had to appear attractive to girls. But alas throughout my BA I didn’t have any luck, either with my hair or, perhaps therefore, with girls. Both refused to cooperate.

While curly hair doesn’t have to be combed and straight hair can be combed very easily, wavy hair is most troublesome.

Then came salvation, as it is wont, from out of the blue. One day while walking back from the college to my room, I found a hairbrush on the road. It looked quite new so picked it up thinking I would give it to some female classmate. I washed it thoroughly in basin with some shampoo — yes we had shampoo in the late 1960s — and  idly ran it through my hair. Then  I stood transfixed in front of the mirror. My hair had suddenly settled down in dune formation. I rumpled it and tried again, to make sure. And again the result was the same.

I realised then that life had taken an important turn and decided then and there to hang on to it. It became the first love of my life. I hung on to it for the next ten years even after half its bristles had fallen off. It looked quite unwell.

But all good things must end and when I got married my wife, quickly spotted her rival. So one of the first things she did was to send my darling brush out into the dustbin. She said it looked terrible, diseased, shameful.

I found a new hairbrush that was just perfect for my hair and realised then that life had taken an important turn and decided then and there to hang on to it.

I sulked so she took me shopping for a brush. Nothing was good enough till I found another rival to her, in Nepal where I had gone on work. It had an intricately carved wooden handle and hard bristles, all for just Nepali ₹50. That was my second love, tempered this time with the knowledge that I would have to make sure it lasted the rest of my life, notwithstanding wife’s tantrums.

But that was easier imagined than done. One day it just vanished. My wife said I must have forgotten it at the hotel we had stayed in. I said she must have thrown it. The mystery hasn’t been resolved in two decades.

But you can’t keep a good man disheveled for long and soon enough I came upon my third heartthrob, this time in Korea which we were visiting. It has a carved ivory handle.  I found in an antique shop. It’s small, just about four inches long. But the bristles are embedded in a copper pad and are hard like fishbone. It cost $30 but I bought it because, once again, as with my wife, it was love at first sight. The only difference is that while one makes my hair stand, the other lays it down in waves. The two complement each other perfectly. Both get into  my hair.