Head massage

Head oil massage is a specialty of my home country India. In fact, I would go as far as to call it a super specialty because no other nation dabbles in it. Not with as much enthusiasm and participation anyway. Every Indian, between the ages of zero and hundred, has had a head massage done at some point or another in their lives. For some it is a daily routine while for many others it is a weekend indulgence but nothing relaxes my fellow country people more than a vigorous hot oil head massage. 

The benefits of this are manifold and they are instilled in our upbringing from a very early age by our grandmothers or nannies. They are the ones who introduce the infants to this procedure in the first place. A small bowl of lukewarm almond, coconut or mustard oil is kept handy which is regularly applied to the scalp of a newborn with gentle strokes. Along with soothing the baby, it is supposed to give it sound sleep as well. The soft fluff on the head also miraculously becomes a thick mop of hair in the process. Nobody questions the veracity of this diktat because most of us are inured into believing it. 

In fact there is a Bollywood film that was released in the late 1950s that has an entire song dedicated to head massage. Believe me, it’s true. The movie is called “Pyasa” which means “The thirsty one” and has a serious storyline about a struggling poet who becomes famous posthumously when everyone thinks that he has died but actually it is a case of mistaken identity and someone else is dead. In the midst of all this melodrama, our film industry’s favourite comedienne Johnny Walker starts singing, extolling the virtues of a head massage. For sheer comic relief, they have yet to create a song to beat this all time classic.

When I was growing up, my granny would catch hold of me every other day and subject me to a brisk head rub. I hated the greasy oil that she poured all over my pate but she was adamant and for a fragile lady, she had surprisingly strong hands. The shampoos we had back then were not mild like the ones we have now and when she gave me a bath afterwards it would get into my eyes and make them sting. My hair would be shining and lustrous but my vision would be blurred for the rest of the evening. The result was that I must be probably the only Indian who did not like her head to be massaged and given a choice I would happily run in the opposite direction. 

I stayed away from it all for as long as I could. And then I moved to Jordan. For some reason Jordanians think that Indians have lustrous hair because of regular head massages. Every time I meet someone in Amman, after a few minutes, the conversation veers towards this topic.

“Your hair is lovely habibti,” a young woman greets me in the gym. 

“Thank you, shukran,” I reply. 

“You massage it?” she asks. 

“No, but I dye it,” I answer truthfully. 

“Oil massage before dying?” she persists. 

“No,” I shake my head. 

“Aha! After dying then?” she probes. 

“Actually no,” I admit. 

“You don’t want to tell me?” she snaps. 

“No, I mean yes,” I falter. 

“So then?” she prompts. 

“Before, I mean after,” I improvise instantly.