YOU have probably heard the proverb "Experience is a comb life gives you after you lose your hair." Or have heard The Beatles song,
“Lend me your comb
It’s time to go home
I got to go past
My hair is a mess”
Or you must have read about the comb in O.Henry’s story ‘The Gift of the Magi’, in which both Stella and Jim give up their most prized possession to purchase a gift for the other – Stella sells her beautiful hair to buy a chain for Jim’s watch while Jim sells his watch to buy a tortoise shell comb for Stella’s hair. Both gifts are useless on the physical level but priceless on the spiritual level for they have each received the perfect gift in that both of them know and are known, love, and are loved.
I came face to face with all the three above recently. I was experienced with life’s lessons; my hair was a mess; and I was out of my comb, with which I had a strong spiritual bonding.
You can imagine how I felt the other day when I could not locate my priceless grooming tool. I was touring, so I rummaged through my suitcase to find my comb. It was nowhere. The sense of loss was intense, quite stronger than the one I would experience upon losing a mobile charger or a notebook. The reason was obvious: it was no ordinary comb for me, fond memories were associated with it. I didn’t want to let go of those memories, I didn’t want to lose the comb.
But to launch a salvage operation for something as trifle as a comb...? My mind protested. My heart won’t let go.
I picked up the phone and connected to the hotel I had checked out the night before. Hesitantly I put forth my unusual request of locating my lost comb to the receptionist. After five minutes or so he called back, only to say that they had completed a thorough combing operation of my suite, and the lost article was nowhere to be found.
‘OK, Thanks’, I said with a heavy heart, and tried to disentangle myself out of the object’s maya. I was well into my mission when the phone rang again and the receptionist opened with a cheerful “Good evening Sir.” I knew what he was going to report. “Sir, your comb was found in a drawer. Please arrange to collect it from the hotel.”
The article is now on its way to me. Seems like I’ll remain under the spell of the comb for some more time.