Losing (Hair, Faith and the Other Smaller Things)
A couple of nights ago, I woke up to the reality that the hair I had inherited from my mother and grandmothers was not in fact , a transaction made in indelible ink and the peeking millimetres of my scalp meant that all my hours of making oil concoctions had very clearly failed. And suddenly everything, a nd I really do mean, everything became about my hair. I looked accusingly at the lunch on my plate, still warm from its swim in garlic butter and wondered why couldn't it just give me the nutrients my hair needed, to stay frozen in its twenties. I did go on and finish the parathas - bursting at the seams - like troubled renters leaning out of their crumbling windows, but I was committed to my tragedy. The aloo parathas were eaten in a pall of gloom; like awkward bystanders at the side of a funeral, with the buffet plate, heavy in their hands. I grew more desperate - zooming in on countless Instagram pictures of women I knew (and didn't know, come on - there's no sham...
