The Scent of Denial
My wife's expression was distant. It was clear she had no interest whatsoever in seeing a photo from 2001, in which I was showing off a corner of my university bedroom, just to point out where I had placed my green iMac, bought second-hand at a very high price. But out of affection, she encouraged me and waited patiently.
When I found the photo, my attention shifted to a secondary detail: that anonymous white bottle, barely visible on one side. And I could smell it again - that sharp, acrid smell, now unbearable to me, that had followed me for a very long time.
I had just turned sixteen when my mother started saying she was finding my hair on the pillow. She was worried, and so was my father. Honestly - I had so much of it, it could only have been their obsession. It was beautiful, glossy, thick. I liked it, even though I kept it short for convenience. I was doing a lot of sport, so it made sense to keep it practical. But given everything we had been through in the years before, I didn't feel like arguing, so I simply acknowledged their obsession and went along with it. I showed no concern whatsoever - I washed it often, it all seemed firmly in place - but if it meant putting their minds at rest, I was willing to go along with their suggestions. The first of which was a visit to a dermatologist friend of the family. He was professional and kind and, as I expected, said I had a great deal of hair. But who knows - stress, genetics - it would be wise to act early, to prevent things from becoming a problem. Doctors. There was an entire line of products: incredibly foul-smelling ampoules to apply in the evening, designed to stimulate the hair follicles. So foul-smelling that after applying them, I had to sit still for around half an hour with a towel over my shoulders, and the pillowcase needed changing every two days because of the stains and the smell. Then in the morning, my hair had to be washed with that shampoo. A shampoo in a plain white bottle, anonymous. Expensive, but not outrageously so - the kind sold in pharmacies. The good news was that my hair really was glossy and beautiful. The bad news was that the whole thing had become a kind of slavery, and the smell of the ampoules lingered even after washing. At best, it mixed with the shampoo, creating something different. After a few months, I stopped noticing.
Time passed, and the visits, the ampoules, the washing continued. I looked at myself and genuinely didn't understand why any of this was necessary. But after what had happened, I thought it was something that reassured them, so I kept enduring it, going along with it. Of course I was irritated. It was a form of slavery. And that smell, which I had grown somewhat used to, was still different from the scent I would have wanted. But I put up with it, covering it by wearing a great deal of cologne and aftershave. My friends never said anything - in fact, they said I always smelled clean. They teased me gently, saying I smelled "too good" for a teenager, but in a positive way. I will be grateful to them for that for the rest of my life.
I was seventeen and in the changing room at school, after PE. That day I'd finished getting dressed before the others and had gone out to the entrance area. Everyone would gradually arrive there, including the girls from my class, so we could organise ourselves for the next lesson. That day, as class representative, I'd been tasked with asking the teacher to go over a topic again - a clever technique to try to avoid any kind of oral test - but I needed to coordinate with my co-representative, so we could make the request together and give it more weight. The changing rooms were at opposite ends - the boys' was at the far end of the corridor, the girls' had two doors but was close to where I was standing. One of the doors had been left open, so you could hear what was being said inside. Out of habit, I wasn't deliberately listening, but when I heard my name, curiosity got the better of reason - and of the lesson I already knew clearly at seventeen: sometimes it's better not to know.
A voice - one I didn't identify in that moment - said cheerfully: "...he can't cover that incredible stench of whatever it is he has on him. He puts on so much cologne, but it's pathetic because the smell still wins." And a general laugh broke out. My brain refused to identify that voice, or the laughter that followed. When someone stabs you in the back, you often don't want to know who is driving the knife in. It would hurt so much more.
The door opened and the first of the girls came out of the changing room. When she saw me standing there, and realised the other door had been left open, she froze. I decided to pretend nothing had happened, that I had heard nothing, and with a smile I asked if my co-representative was ready, as we needed to coordinate. Escaping her discomfort, she replied with half a smile: "Yes, she's coming. Bye!"
I never spoke about it to anyone.
When I got home, I made a decision: I would never put those ampoules on my head again. At most, I would keep using the shampoo. But the ampoules - no. I didn't explain why. I didn't want them to feel guilty about any of it. After all, even if in their own way, they were doing it for my good. And yet I felt trapped - without knowing how to get out. We agreed I would finish the current box of ampoules - there were still a few months' worth left - and then we wouldn't buy more. They were very expensive, but according to my parents, they were working. "Expensive, this placebo", I thought - and not just in financial terms.
A few months later came one of the highlights of the year: a Carnival party, organised by an important local association, where you could attend either in costume or well-dressed - jacket and tie - and only by invitation. I always had an invitation, thanks to my friends, and I looked forward to it every year. This time, though, everything was different: in the meantime I had turned eighteen and got my driving licence. When I got dressed at home, I looked in the mirror and liked what I saw. I hadn't used the ampoules for two days - to avoid the smell - and my hair was glossy and bright.
That evening I arrived by car and brought a friend along, who I signed in with me. A girl who was and would remain only a friend - but that evening, I felt genuinely good about myself. I was independent - my own car! I arrived with a beautiful girl - just a friend, of course, but all of it made me feel good - and I felt adult, accepted. Respected. There was dinner, then the after-dinner - the moment when they played music for our generation and people danced. It was the late nineties, disco music still had a pulse, even if its final stages, while we were in full bloom. At a certain point I got thirsty, took a break, went for a glass of water. I decided to stop by the bathroom to rinse my face and wash off the sweat. As I splashed water on my face, I was thinking about how wonderful the evening was, how marvellous it was to be growing up and becoming an adult. I looked up at the mirror, smiling the smile of someone who is happy. I looked straight into my own eyes - bright, full of energy - and then I saw something: above those eyes, my hair was thin. At the front, and on top. I tried moving it a little - maybe the sweat had flattened it? - but nothing changed. I froze.
A close friend walked into the bathroom. I looked at him. He looked at me. A moment - just a moment - and then he gave a small nod, the kind that doesn't need words. I pushed all the negative emotions back down, overwhelmed by the positive ones. This was me. This was really me. I ran a hand through my hair to put it back in order, and walked back into the ballroom, smiling, with an enormous sense of relief. I would carry on with the ampoules and that shampoo in its anonymous white bottle for years more.
Until life, like the bottle, came into colour.