Colour blind

I dealt with that quandary of modern man with great resolve. From the very first sign of premature silvery invasion, i told the mirror, 'There will be no dye, pal." That was it. But here i was on a Bangalore-Mumbai express hurtling along on its last leg one early morning, and a kindly old lady serving breakfast to her family made me rethink. The lady ladling kande pohe from a stainless steel vessel to kids and adults around her turned to me.Like a good hospitable Indian, she held out a plate of the beaten puffed rice savoury, "Please have, uncle." I was taken aback. Not by the poha. It looked delicious, welcoming. It was the 'uncle' bit that rankled.
The lady would easily be in her 70s and here she was merrily addressing me, a thirty something, as 'uncle'. As i hesitated, she said, "I made it with my own hands at home. Please have, uncle!" So a bit unhappily, i took the offering. By my side the wife happily tucked into her poha, smiled wickedly, and seeing my frown, said, "Come off it. The 'uncle' bit? It's just a local form of respectable address. If you don't want this yummy stuff, hand it over, pal!"
"Sign of respect?" i raised my eyebows. Respect or not, first thing i'll do on reaching Andheri is to hunt out a hair-saloon, i murmured to myself. And some two hours later when i returned home, i did so with pep in my step, and a mop of uniform jet black hair. The barber hadn't missed one silver hair. The wifey stood at the door, mouth open. Then in quick time, brought hand to mouth to stifle the exploding laughter. The effect wasn't lost on the kids either. One moment they were sprawled on the carpet or on the sofa playing games. Next moment, on sighting me, everything lit up. First came the shriek, then yells and the living room turned into an animated stage where everyone clapped or screamed...and even the maid stepped out to have a dekko, and pulled the pallu over her smiling face.
Many summers later, post that horrendous morning in Andheri, i have often mulled over the idea of covering the pesky silvers by using light ash colours to soften the grey rather than camouflage it. I learnt quickly that it's not easy to fool senior co-workers with jet-black hair or those pretty things with red, auburn, or copper streaks. Better to age with grace and dignity, i said, shelving the colouring fashion. That's how i remain years after the poha lady, resigned to a head lush with hair, untouched; better grey hair than no hair.
Once in a while though, the salt and pepper gives me the jollies. Take the time at a Roger Waters concert. As i watched the carefully hair-dyed rocker prancing around belting out the oldie, 'Another Brick in the Wall', two pretty young things in tight outfits and stripey fire-engine red and nuclear peroxide highlights, elbowed their way to my side. Swaying and dancing, they kept throwing glances at Roger and at my head. Apparently, the blue strobe lights from the stage bouncing off my top had something to do with it. Out of breath, one of the girls cooed, "I like it, i like it! Is that L'Oreal's camo colour?" The other went, "Silvery streaks, wow. Awesome! Way to go, dude."
Before i could respond, the wifey was my side. Like lightning. Whisking me away with a sweet smile, she told the bewildered girls, "Uncle doesn't do dyes, dear!"