Losing hair

There was a time when making polite conversation used to mean talking about innocuous topics, like the weather for example. When I met a friend, he’d remark:

“Hi Paddy. Very hot weather we’re having lately, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Mike,” I’d say (if his name were Mike). And I might comment about the sharp difference in weather between Singapore and Chicago.

Alternatively we would talk about sports. He might ask me if I watched last night’s tennis match between Nadal and Federer and whether I agreed with him that it was awesome. I would answer both questions in the affirmative and go on to compare the match with another one the two gentlemen played last year.

Or it could be movies. Or politics. You get the idea.

While these topics are innocuous, there is a school of thought that says they lack zing, that they are boring, precisely because they are innocuous. Books have been written on the subject, with titles like How to Convert a Conversation into a Friendship. To save you the cost of buying one and then the torture of reading it, let me summarize the wisdom it will impart:

1. The person you’re talking to should find the conversation interesting (not you).

2. Extensive studies have shown that the most interesting person in every one’s life is themselves. Incredible as it may sound, this is true of all people, irrespective of their race, country of citizenship and whether they like spicy food or not.

3. Therefore, to be interesting to the person you’re talking to, talk about him or her.

I think my friends and relatives have been reading such books because, when they talk to me, they talk about me. And after listening to them for a while, I’m beginning to believe I’m losing hair.

Friends whom I’ve not met for some time usually greet me like this:

“Hi Paddy, how have you been? Hey, you’re really balding. How come?”

Or: “Hi, Paddy, how are you? You’re thinning at the top, man! What happened?”

Even friends I meet regularly keep me up-to-date on my hair-loss progress. For example,

“Hi, Paddy, how’s the knee? Still losing hair, I notice.”

Or: “I met Arun Varma yesterday. He has lost a lot of hair. But not as much as you of course...”

I visit my mother in Chennai a couple of times a year. She always greets me with a hug and “You’ve lost more hair”. She then comments on my balding at length to cousins and aunts we meet (“Isn’t he really losing hair?”). She believes this important information should also be shared with friends I haven’t met. She introduces me to them with: “Meet my son. He works in Singapore. He’s really losing hair. It’s funny you know, his father did not lose hair till he was fifty, but my son has started very early. Amazing, isn’t it?” (Her friends always agree).

Since I’ve always wanted to lose hair, these remarks thrill me and I get goose bumps all over my body. Therefore I respond positively and even answer the question on how I’m achieving such stellar results; for example:

“Hi Paddy; it’s been a long time. Hey, you’re really losing hair. How come?”

“Well, I don’t usually tell but you’re a close friend. I apply hydrochloric acid twice a day, and then pull my hair strongly at the roots. And once a week I go for a special turpentine-cum-kerosene head massage.”

When I say this, the other person looks a little blank and gazes at me enquiringly. I’ve now figured out why: they don’t really want me to answer their question. They want a similar compliment in return. I realize I’m being self-centred, listening to my virtues without responding in kind. Filled with remorse and a desire to correct this flaw in my character, I now intend to give others the same feeling of self-esteem that I experience. 

From now on, I envisage the conversation going something like this:

“Hi Paddy, you’re losing a lot of hair.”

“Really? Thanks. And I notice you’ve put on weight. You’re looking positively bigger than when I met you last – when was it? – a month ago? You must have put on at least three kilograms. How do you do it, in such a short time?”

I’ll be able to cover most of my acquaintances with this compliment. Many people I meet appear to have gained weight since I last met them. Others don’t need to: they are stout enough to justify the tribute just as they are.

But I will sound insincere if I try to cover everyone with the same form of praise. Some people may genuinely have other areas more worthy of comment. For example:

“Hi Paddy, you’re really losing hair.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it. And I’ve been meaning to talk to you about those pock marks on your face. You’ve always had several but lately they’ve really spread. Now there’s hardly any normal skin on your face. Fantastic! How do you do it?”

Or: “Thanks, really kind or you to mention it. And I’ve never told you this before but I’ve always admired your eyes. I notice each of them points in a different direction. I’m sure it gives you an amazing range of vision compared to normal people. Can you see behind yourself? Superb stuff!” 

I’m confident that, if I look for it with a sincere heart, I will find something apt to say to everyone. I’m excited at the prospect of bringing joy to my friends’ lives. I can already picture them when they hear me: their faces will brighten visibly (except the fellow with pock marks, on whom it’s difficult to detect such things), their eyes will light up and, though I may not hear it, their hearts will sing with joy.