Warning: ‘Who don’t hair, will feel!’

A couple years ago, someone sang a popular local ditty part of which went: “when ah dead, bury meh clothes...” It was supposed to be an ode to infidelity with the singer saying he wanted his clothes buried presumably so the outside man, already having his way with the singer’s better half, would not completely emasculate him (the singer) by wearing his clothes as well. Or something to that effect. I try not to pay too much attention to such rabble. In my case, I am sure I have no such problems. I mean after all, I have my wife wrapped around my sada-making fingers and we have a picknee on the way to boot.

No, my problem is and has always been my hair. Plain and simple. In fact, I intend to have a paragraph in my Will set aside with specific instructions: “when ah dead, shave meh head bald.” You see this would be my final defiant stance to all those people who have had something or the other to say (most of which was damn rude if you ask me) about my hair in general and my hairstyle in particular. Even to this day, I have to endure friendly barbs from my co-workers whenever I have a haircut. “Chee Hing what happen you trying out for the Army or what?”; “ah tort the vietcongs and them s’posed to be in Vietnam?”; “ah boy tha’s a nice head to dish out some calpet.” And others which I don’t care to mention.

I know these co-workers are trying to be friendly in their own dotish way and so I forgive them. And you know the funny thing is we have a certain boss-lady who sports really dread, dreadlocks and whenever she has them “done” by the hairdresser, no one dares to make any smart-aleck remarks to her. So what’s wrong with me? Why is it that when I get a haircut everyone, including Miss Dreads herself, are chock full of comments and remarks about my poor defenseless scalp. No fair! Anyways, as I said, I am not offended by these remarks because I know they are not meant as insults, but rather as friendly barbs which, while aimed at my style-less haircut, at least lightens the newsroom and provides some off-colour humour and comic relief.

But growing up it wasn’t always so easy. You see, being of Chinese and Indian persuasion (I am also investigating reports of some Spanish blood mixing with the ChinDian brew), I have dead straight hair. For the first half of my life (as far as I could recollect) my hair was in a straightforward style — pointing southwards — similar to if you would put a wet mop on someone’s head. I remember going to school after a haircut and being questioned by my friends as to whether the barber had placed a bowl around my head and then cut off the excess hair. Was that supposed to be a joke? I however, being a humanitarian and having an IQ far superior to them, used laughingly to ignore their insults. Besides, most of them were bigger than me and starting a fight was not an option. The ones my size hung out with the brutes, so that was no help either.

I remember in sheer frustration lathering my head with Carbolic soap and slicking it back in an effort to have a more contemporary and sociably accepted style. To no avail. I also remember the times when my barber would make a mistake — the sort we Trinis call a “zog” and then cheerfully decide (without consulting the most important person) to shave me almost bald in order to cover up his incompetence. Almost baldheaded, I had to go to school the next Monday (I always took my haircut on a Saturday back then) looking like a short, fat member of the Shaolin Temple. The hyenas in my primary school cackled for hours. Some even touched my head with their paws and then recoiled in mock pain as their palms were impaled by my hair which being dead straight and cut almost to baldness, stuck out like needles all over my scalp.

To get a clearer picture, imagine touching a porcupine. My teenage years were spent trying to conform to the style of the day (gheri-curls, flat-tops, muffs...you name it). But it never worked and in the end I would end up looking like a perpetually angry monk. In my early twenties, I attained a certain peace and serenity regarding my hair. I had thrown away the chip from my shoulder and learned to love my still style-less hair. Or so I thought. Up to this day, I still get slightly peeved when the odd remark on my haircut sinks beneath my usually thick skin. This happens especially after I leave heated meetings with my boss (the one with the dreads...we argued last week over who would make the more dotish comment for the day, Martin Joseph or Hazel Manning).

All things considered, however, my boss is a lucky woman indeed. She has no such hair phobias as I do and wears her dreads with the grace of a woman who cares not what people think about her. She actually looks good with the dreads. I HAVE to say so, if you get my drift, but I hope and pray she never has to go for any reason to a Catholic School, particularly one in Tunapuna. Heaven forbid, she may have to face detention or say a million Hail Marys.

So, while I have learned to love my hair and accept it for what it is - straight as a pin, strong as twine, rich and luxuriant and perpetually free from dandruff, I intend to be cremated bald, so that no one can make fun of my head as I lie in the coffin. I would not want to have to haunt anyone for such trivialities as making fun of my head. And besides, my pal Confucius once said: “Morons who tease Chinee man about hair, will spend night in toilet with diarrhoea.” I will stop hair. You have been warned!