Vintage Photos and Vanishing Hairlines

What family albums teach us about style, genetics and our follicle future

I’m flipping through the family album, as I often do. Usually, my eyes are glued to my mum—the radiant queen of every photo op. But today, I find myself fixated on a snapshot of my younger self, sandwiched between my parents in a studio that just oozes “vintage charm.”

They both look like they’ve just stepped out of a 1960s Calcutta fashion magazine—Dad sporting a moustache that could double as a broom and Mum with hair so big it looks like it could host a family of pigeons.

And wouldn’t you know it? Jealousy strikes!

Now, you might think I’m mourning the fact that I’m the only one still around in that photo—both my parents have ascended to a “better place,” probably debating who makes the best appams in the afterlife. But no, my envy has a much fluffier root.

It’s my hair—a wild, curly mane that clearly has a personal vendetta against combs.

Back then, my curls were so savage they could have auditioned for a role in a Tarzan movie. Seriously, I look like a mini-Einstein on a sugar rush, with strands of hair going every which way as if they’re trying to discover the secrets of the universe. Or maybe they’re just shocked at the traffic chaos of Calcutta.

Fast forward to today, and my hair is tamed—each strand neatly accounted for, like students in a classroom. Through all these years and haircuts, one feature remains steadfast—my widow’s peak!

This glorious V-shaped crown is my dad’s gift to me, a legacy that says, “You may not have much hair left, but at least you’ll have style!”

And while I may not have lost as much hair as Dad did, let’s just say I’m on the fast track to join him on that journey. At this rate, I’ll be sporting a shiny dome before I can even say “genetics!”

So here’s to family photos: they remind us where we came from—and just how much hair we’ve lost along the way!