I have one strand of white hair (Ok fine! Maybe two or three strands. But since they are well hidden I shall refrain from talking about them.) that sticks out at every conceivable embarrassing situation. And sometimes at extremely wrong moments.

For instance, the time when I was travelling in Europe and showing a false student’s ID card (to get discounts) where I claimed to be half a dozen years younger than my actual age. Every time I stuck the card out and the person on the other side of the counter would look at me to me to ratify my age, my white hair strand would pop out. Every time! Unfailingly. Thankfully, the disparity in language spared me the effort of giving any explanations (hereditary, pre-mature greying, etc, etc).

And that is not the only instance. My white hair strand pops out every time I meet friends after a long time (who never fail to point it out to me), every time I meet old ladies who cluck and say, “Get her married soon. She’s beginning to get white hair.” Every time! On dates, in important client meetings, in marriages and funerals. It doesn’t leave me even in my sleep. In my nightmares it grows long and wraps itself around my neck and starts choking me.

I hear you ask me that if the white strand disturbs me so much why don’t I just remove it. It’s a silly reason why I don’t. But my grandmother used to say that if you pluck one white hair 10 more pop out. So plucking as an option is out. I could colour it. But it seems silly subjecting my hair to hydrogen peroxide which will strip out the vital elements from my hair for the sake of one strand of hair (or even three for that matter).

But now, people have started calling me Indira Gandhi. Indira Gandhi? I have one white hair for heavens sake! So I have finally decided to do cut it off. It will be almost like cutting off a part of me. (For the ‘Friends’ fanatics it is almost like Chandler’s nubbin). But, cut it, I will. Tonight I shall take the plunge.