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Los Angeles Times Valley Edition | Glendale News-Press | 2004 August 21
A shaved head for my suffering
BY PATRICK AZADIAN
A few months ago, I concocted the "suffering gene" theory and attributed its symptoms to my own ethnic group. I'd like to introduce an addendum to the original.
Whereas the early unscientific thesis claimed we like to make life difficult for ourselves, the new extension argues that a "suffering person will make others suffer as well."
I'll present some raw and random data on what I'd like to call "the collective suffering syndrome." There is no room to actually prove my thesis.
Not long ago I decided to shave my head. I figured it would be cool (as in not warm), Andre Agassi sports it (and he was with Brooke Shields for a while), and it is somewhat in fashion.
I took the plunge and had my mom shave my head. The next morning, my scalp was the beneficiary of a new and breezy sensation. I walked up the stairs at my office building, and was greeted by Nazan, one of the employees in the adjoining rooms. She could not take her eyes off my head and asked the question right away:
"Inchoo, tsakoog?!" ("Why, baby?!" in Armenian)
"Inchoo, tsakoog, eench?" ("Why baby, what?")
"Why did you do it?"
I already knew her opinion was pre-set. A friend of mine (a computer engineer) once shared with me his deep understanding of the human psyche: "Whenever a person changes his look drastically, it means he is in deep depression." Nazan had studied electrical engineering, and if she came from the same school of thought, I knew she had no interest in my response.
I gave the appropriate answer: "Anank." ("Just because.")
Nazan continued staring at my head and followed up: "You know, a lot of guys who are going bald are doing that!"
The psychotherapy session continued: "You are probably also suffering from mid-age crisis. You also bought a convertible car, didn't you?"
I was tempted to write her a check for $115 for the insightful session. I had so many apparent mental scars, but so little time. Perhaps "the collective suffering syndrome" was at work. If she was suffering from something, then, darnit, I had to suffer too. It would be too simple if I just liked change, and enjoyed a topless ride on the weekends.
My hair grew as my mom refused to shave my head again: "You look like gangster. I heard Glendale police are stopping everyone with shaved heads!"
I called up my hair stylist: "My mom is refusing to shave my head."
"Yes maz chem khoozoom," ("I don't shave heads.") she replied.
I brought up the subject with her once more during one of her coffee breaks: "I really want to get my head shaved. I've tried it myself a couple of times and seem to miss a couple of patches in the back. It makes me look like I am suffering from tinea capitis (the scalp ringworm disease), native to the remote villages of Zakarpatska Oblast in the Ukraine."
She was aloof, she sipped her cappuccino grande and replied with continued silence.
The next day, I shifted my efforts to new pastures. My aunt's friend had just started working at a local hair studio. I asked her if she would shave my head with a No. 1 buzzer.
"Sure, just call and make an appointment."
Perfect.
I arrived at the studio on the appointment day. I received a warm Armenian welcome and was immediately asked: "Soorj, kuh khumes?" ("Coffee?")
"Haykakan?" ("Armenian?")
"Ha." ("Yeah.")
"Sure."
She made the perfect soorj, just the way Armenians from Iran drink it, with "kaf/purpoor" (coffee foam) on top.
I was celebrating the positive aspects of my ethnicity when I noticed Sarine, my new hair stylist, staring at my scalp.
"Shaat dughamarteek vor kachalanoom en, mazeruh khoozoom en." ("A lot of men who are going bald are shaving their heads.")
"And?"
"And nothing, I am just saying. Sorry, did I say the wrong thing?"
"No, no. The coffee is great, by the way. Thank you."
"Khuntrem." ("You are welcome.")
Finally, I ended up in the styling chair and began being buzzed.
Peace lasted a total of four Earth minutes. I noticed another hair stylist, who already had an active client, come over to my chair and check out my hair from up close. I could feel her breathing on the top of me. By now, her client was checking my head as well; her head was turned, ooooh, about 63 degrees southwest, and was squinting her eyes from a distance.
Without an introduction, the new stylist put in her two cents' worth: "Oozoom es het dzulee?" ("Do you want it to regrow?")
"Eenchuh?" ("What?")
"Mazerud. Oozoom es het dzulee? Vorovhedev, es shampoon kah vor shaat lavunah." ("Your hair. Do you want it to regrow? there is this shampoo that's really good.")
"No thanks."
The No. 1 buzz turned out just perfect. But the abuse was unnecessary. I could not help but attribute my experiences to "the collective suffering syndrome." I was made to share some soft pain. As a general rule though, I prefer to employ the American motto: "Don't say anything, unless you have something nice to say."
Copyright 2004 Glendale News Press
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