Age is Still a Number

Age, they say is a state of the mind. Till, which number is what I ask? For however young you may be at heart, the numbers do catch up with you, in one form or the other.

Two years back, in Bombay, gingerly crossing over to the new right-side of forty, I harboured the desire to sport a nerdy pair of glasses, which would also contribute to the allure of my age. I went to the doctor, who examined me (rather my eyes) and declared that my god-gifted natural pair would last me another two years. True to his word, on the gong of 42, I realised that I was holding my books at an arm’s length, literally not proverbially. I immediately took the steps to acquire the long desired pair of sexy, nerdy glasses and started wearing them with an air of importance, not uncommon to unimportant people.

The strands of grey hair appeared next. They came in the most un-orderly fashion, instigating unorthodox comments from the most orthodox people. I was not motivated enough to take the initiative of going to a doc; however, if I had, I am sure he would not have assured me that the state of things can continue for some more time.

Apart from these two signals, most things were fine. I was pulling along as bravely as a forty-plus Indian woman can hope to, reassuring myself that I was not to appear for the ‘Yummy Mummy Contest’; in which case the extra efforts would have been justified. But then Sandra Bullock made a mess of things. Seeing her in ‘Proposal’, I was ashamed to face the mirror. I loathed myself for being lazy. I urged myself to visit the parlour.

Now, normal men and women will not be able to understand my inordinate fear of a beauty parlour. I actually become a bundle of nerves, as I enter the parlour. Totally vulnerable and insecure, I have all sorts of deadly insects fluttering not only in my stomach but in every mentionable organ that exists.

But for Bullock, this visit would not have been possible. As, I mutter and stammer at the reception and manage to convey that I need to have a facial and a hair-cut, the constant urge is to backtrack through the door. The very helpful attendant provides me with a catalogue and asks me to choose form an array of confusingly named facials. From ‘fruit punch’ to ‘honey’ , ‘herbal’ to ‘fresh dew’, the choices do not remotely give me an idea of what I am getting into. However, the prices do. I decide to go the tame way, my feet already waiting in the vain hope that it can carry my body against my wish. I ask the very helpful girl. She enquires about my skin type. Though I am not very confident, I tell her that I have a dry skin, feebly adding that I have never had pimples. She smiles with great patience and lead me to the room, where for the next two hours she does everything, stopping short of a scrub with a wire scrubber. All the time she makes these sorrowful clucking noises that implies a range of emotions; horror, disbelief, anguish, remorse, and frustration. The stubborn black heads refuse to leave the sanctuary of my nose, and hard though she tried, she managed to dislodge the apex of my olfactory organ but not the black heads. I stopped short of screaming, primarily because it was my fault that the black heads were permanent residents. She massaged successive layers of packs on my face; some smelled like strawberry and I had to restrain the urge to lick around my lips. Some tasted like a Bong concoction known as ‘sinni’, which we usually make, as an offering during a puja at home. Some titillated the senses with the earthy smell of wet soil and was erotic to say the least. Each time she would apply a mask and disappear for eternity, or so it seemed with my eyes protectively closed with wet cotton, against the harsh reality of the world outside. The piano chords that drifted in, was so soft that more than once it lulled me to sleep. Then the scrubbing started. Lying there, having surrendered to the process, I dreamt of a new ‘me’ surfacing from this rigorous effort. After almost what seemed like an eternity and when I had practically given up hope of respite, she declared that I was done. Collecting the pieces of my cramped body, I tentatively peered into the mirror. What a shock! It was the same old me, only redder and more harassed, that started back. I was as surprised to see myself as my image was to see my surprise. What had I expected? Sandra Bullock waving at me?

So, though I laugh a lot, love a lot, and cry a lot, I still need my dentist, my glasses, and a monthly ritual at the dresser to make me ‘look’ young and not just ‘feel’ it.