A Touch of Youth
The Hair Dye Chronicles
The morning sun streamed through the kitchen window, casting a warm glow on Father’s salt-and-pepper hair as he lost himself in the newspaper. He was a picture of concentration, completely oblivious to the world around him. This was a familiar sight, one that played out almost every day. Father could disappear into the pages of a newspaper for hours.
A mischievous notion danced in my mind as I looked at the box of jet-black L’Oréal hair dye perched on the counter. It was a carefully selected, practical gift from my recent escapade in Dubai.y contrasted with the vibrant hues of my mother’s cups and plates, which I also brought from Dubai.
Dubai is always an adventure. I’d shared an apartment with Roy, a man my father’s age who sported a full head of raven black hair. His secret? Hair dye expertly applied by yours truly. Roy had taught me the art of the dye job — how to mix the concoction, section the hair, and apply the dye meticulously to avoid staining the scalp. I was his personal hair colourist.
The newspaper finally fluttered to the ground, marking the end of Dad’s reading ritual. Seizing the moment, I unleashed my most persuasive charm, my words dripping with concern and playfulness. “Father, you’re looking a bit shaggy,” I chimed, “How about a trim? Let me work my magic and make you look younger again.”
An hour later, he returned, his hair neatly trimmed by the neighbourhood barber. With a triumphant grin, I ushered him towards the kitchen. Mother looked curious as I draped a towel around his neck and transformed a kitchen chair into a makeshift salon throne.
Just like Roy had instructed, I carefully donned a pair of gloves and began mixing the dye. The pungent aroma filled the air, starkly contrasting the aromatic scent of Mother’s cooking that usually lingered.
The transformation began. With the practised air of a seasoned colourist, I sectioned Father’s hair, meticulously applying the dye starting at the roots. It was a different experience from dyeing Roy’s hair, which was straight, while my father’s was curly. Gone were the days of him combing out stray bits of hair after a haircut; today, a shower was forbidden.
Minutes ticked by each one, and Father was brought closer to a youthful transformation. Mother peeked in periodically, a hint of amusement dancing in her eyes. “Making your father a young man again?” she teased, her smile betraying her curiosity.
Finally, after fifteen suspenseful minutes, I finished the process, revealing a head of dark, jelly-like hair. Father hesitantly approached the mirror, a mix of apprehension and curiosity etched on his face. But as his gaze met his reflection, a wide grin spread. He looked… younger! A wave of relief washed over me — my daring plan had worked!
We emerged from the kitchen, ready to shower, and went outside to the water well. It felt like a total role reversal. Just a few years earlier, my father had been pulling water from the well to bathe me, as I was too young to handle the task. This time, I pulled the water for him to bathe.
We returned from the well, my father sporting his new look. My mother looked on, surprised and secretly impressed. The day had started with a newspaper-reading father and a box of hair dye. Still, it had ended with a laughter-filled kitchen, a daring experiment, a renewed sense of youthful vigour for my father, and a spark of excitement for my mother.
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