The doctor felt it was finally time for pop ‘to see the world, again’. So, we helped him into a wheelchair and took him on a tour of the hospital.
Throughout the SOS phase I feared for his physical health and sometimes, life too. But I never quite imagined the beating it could take on his mental well-being. What was he thinking whilst lying in that hospital bed, often staring vacantly into space? It would scare my mother to bits. She and I tried reassuring him that everything will be okay, but I’m not quite sure he actually believed us. I’m not quite sure any of use believed it. But it had to be said nevertheless.
His health has been steadily improving post the surgery. But he still seemed emotionally disturbed, days post the surgery. Mama and I racked are brains trying hard to find the right words to say, which would inspire him to make a fresh start, begin life with a clean slate, that sort of thing. It seems to be working since yesterday, slowly but steadily.
On a different note, post weeks of hastily bunching up gangly tresses into an unbecoming knot, I decided to have a haircut. So, Jen and me went to this new place called Papilon. Not a good idea. The ’senior hairstylists’ are these chaps from Delhi with bizaare haircuts and bad colour jobs. The place is brighly lit (with an overkill of Christmas decorations) and looks all done up. A case of neat book cover but terrible book.
I suppose that’s the difference between a ’salon’ and a ’saloon’. Sigh!
