Three funerals. In a single day.
It would have been fine if someone else had died. But his own hair? And three of them?
Rahul stood before the mirror, watching three lonely hairs swirl down the drain like Titanic survivors. He almost saluted—three brave soldiers sacrificed in the endless war against his scalp.
“I will expose this shampoo fraud, even if it’s the last strand on my head,” he vowed, gripping the Smile and Shine bottle. Its promise had been repeated everywhere—TV ads, Instagram reels, even bus-stop hoardings. And like a fool in love, Rahul had trusted again.
It wasn’t his first betrayal. Years ago, another shampoo had cost him not only his hair but also his girlfriend. His mother had convinced him to forget the girlfriend, not the hair. But today, Rahul felt he must avenge his fall—his hair fall—before he lost another girl his mother already hated.
But this time, Rahul was determined.
His plan was clear—bleed the shampoo company dry, then rise again with a head so full of transplanted hair even pigeons could nest in it.
***
Rahul stormed into the local chemist. He wanted the chemist to give him an apology and also blame the shampoo company for his hair fall. His plan was to use the video apology as proof to claim compensation.
“This shampoo is killing me!” he declared, slamming the bottle on the counter like a judge bringing criminals to justice.
The chemist, an old man in his sixties, didn’t pay heed. Rahul slammed the bottle again.
“I demand a video apology!”
The chemist blinked. He thought Rahul was a reporter from some news channel. He quickly gestured to his employee, who grabbed an unopened box and ran to the storeroom.
“Sir, it’s anti-dandruff,” the chemist said, trying to distract Rahul from the box. “It will kill your dandruff, not you.”
Rahul opened his camera and started recording. “No! The shampoo is anti-sex. It wants to wipe out the only thing that makes my girlfriend attracted to me—” he touched his almost bald head, “—my hair.”
The chemist looked around for the cameraman who usually accompanies reporters but found none.
“Which channel do you belong to, Sir?” he asked suspiciously.
“None,” Rahul shrugged. “I am independent.”
The chemist stared at him, then gave him a tight slap.
Rahul was so shaken that a couple of his hairs fell and died with the jerk.
“Get lost!” the chemist yelled. “I will kill you before the shampoo kills your hair!”
***
The chemist fiasco didn’t stop Rahul. Embarrassed? Sure. But also more determined than ever to squeeze compensation out of Smile and Shine.
Still, one thing kept itching in his head—like dandruff. That damn box the chemist’s employee had hidden. But first things first: money for a hair transplant. Justice before curiosity.
So Rahul moved to Plan B: customer care.
He dialed the number on the back of the bottle. Forty-eight minutes of flute torture later, a woman finally picked up.
“Sir, our shampoo is dermatologically tested—” she started, even before Rahul spoke.
Rahul froze. Wait. Does the shampoo also leak my thoughts once it touches my scalp?
He panicked. He had to speak before his brain leaked out too.
“Your shampoo is a murderer!” he shouted.
“Sir?”
“Yes! My scalp is the victim. Do you know how many funerals I’ve attended in my bathroom drain? Last week I clogged my sink. Not with toothpaste, not with food. With hair!”
The woman tried to sound professional. “Sir, hair fall can be caused by many factors.”
“Really?” Rahul snorted. “Like what?”
“Like genes.”
Rahul scratched his almost-bald head. How does she know my family has bad genes?
“Oh, please! My father is bald, but that’s because he joined politics. He didn’t lose his hair—the public snatched it!”
“Hair fall can also be caused by water… or diet,” she added.
Rahul squinted at the phone. How does she know I drink tea made with dirty tap water? How does she know my diet is mostly what my mother calls garbage?
Before he could speak, she went on. “Even weather can cause hair fall.”
Rahul’s jaw dropped. “Oh wow. So now you’re blaming climate change? What’s next—Donald Trump is responsible for my bald patches too?”
There was silence. The customer care lady actually considered the point. Rahul, meanwhile, wondered if she was somehow related to Trump.
Finally, she cleared her throat. “Sir, would you like to speak to our senior expert?”
“Yes!” Rahul sighed in relief. “Finally. Someone who understands the gravity of this national crisis.”
***
Five minutes later, a deep, official-sounding voice came on.
“This is Dr. Sharma, Head of Hair Science.”
Rahul straightened up as if he were on parade. He almost saluted the phone.
“Doctor, you have to help me. Your shampoo is wiping me out.”
“Sir, our product has been dermatologically tested. We guarantee visible results in twelve weeks.”
Rahul’s jaw dropped. He clawed at his head, trying to pull his hair in frustration, but his fingers slipped off the bald patch like they were sliding on polished marble.
“Dermatologically tested? What does that even mean? I’ve seen monkeys test things before rubbing them on their bodies. What’s next—do you people test by eating your own shampoo?”
There was a pause. Rahul pictured a group of scientists in lab coats, passing around bowls of shampoo like soup. He almost gagged.
Dr. Sharma’s tone grew sharper. Rahul had clearly hit a nerve. “Sir, maybe you’re using it incorrectly?”
Rahul gasped. He clutched the bottle tighter, pacing his room like a lawyer preparing a final argument.
“Incorrectly? How? You think I mix it with water and drink it? You think I put it on a burger instead of ketchup? I follow the instructions exactly—apply, massage, rinse… cry.”
Silence. Rahul could almost hear Dr. Sharma grinding his teeth on the other end. The man probably wanted to pull his own hair, but Rahul imagined him stopping, remembering his surgeon’s warning after a transplant: Touch it, and it’s gone forever.
Finally, Dr. Sharma spoke in a calm, too-polite tone.
“Sir, perhaps you should stop using it if you’re unhappy.”
Rahul’s eyes widened. He stopped pacing. “And let you escape justice? Never. I demand compensation!”
The line crackled. Rahul could feel the doctor’s patience peeling away, layer by layer-like his own hair.
At last, Dr. Sharma sighed. “Fine. Get us proof that other customers have faced the same problem. Then I’ll arrange compensation.”
Rahul’s lips curled into a smile. Proof? That would be easy. He already knew where to find victims.
***
That Sunday, Rahul gathered his friends at a tea stall.
“Listen carefully,” he whispered, as if narrating a spy thriller. “The shampoo industry is a scam.”
Amit, forehead shining like a football ground under floodlights, leaned forward eagerly. “Tell me more.”
“They are secretly working with barbers,” Rahul declared. He jabbed his finger in the air for emphasis. “The more hair you lose, the more visits to the salon. And who owns salons? Politicians! It’s a nexus!”
Everyone gasped. Even the hairless stray dog lifted its head and barked, as if seconding the motion.
Rahul pressed on. “We must expose them. I need testimony from you saying that the shampoo destroyed your hair.”
His friends stared at him like dogs ready to pounce on meat. Rahul could feel sweat prickling under his collar. They knew he had a motive.
He tried to look casual, sipping his tea and hiding his face behind the glass while peeking at them.
“Fine,” he said finally. “I will give you twenty bucks each.”
The stares made noise now. Rahul realised his friends were almost growling.
“Okay, thirty. Deal?”
Amit stood up as if he was about to kill him. The others exchanged glances, then rose too. Rahul nearly toppled out of his chair and killed some of his hair as a result.
Before he could raise the offer, his friends kicked him and walked off. The dog barked again, this time as if laughing.
Rahul picked himself up, brushing dust and chai stains from his shirt. His scalp still stung, but his brain sparked. He thought of the box the chemist’s employee had hidden. Maybe it held proof of customer testimonies.
He decided he had to go after it.
***
At midnight, armed with nothing but anger, a flashlight, and a packet of Parle-G biscuits, Rahul sneaked into the chemist’s shop. His heart pounded like he was in a heist movie, except the loot was not gold but dandruff-free justice.
Inside, he found huge boxes stacked against the wall, labeled “Shampoo,” “Soap,” and, most suspiciously, “Marketing Lies.” All stamped with the Smile and Shine logo.
“See!” Rahul whispered to no one. “Proof!”
He crept further down the aisle, his shoes squeaking against the floor, until he stumbled on a locked door. With the skill of an untrained monkey—and the determination of a man losing 30 hairs a day—he forced it open.
The sight inside froze him.
Hundreds of wigs.
“Good God,” Rahul whispered, clutching his flashlight. “They’re stealing our hair to make wigs!”
His mouth fell open as his imagination ran wild. “This is bigger than I thought. First, they take our hair, then they sell it back to us in the form of wigs. I knew Tom Cruise’s hairline was suspicious!”
Suddenly, alarms wailed, and red lights flashed. Security guards stormed in, their batons raised.
“Stop right there!”
Rahul panicked. He snatched the nearest object—an empty shampoo bottle—and held it like a weapon.
“One more step and I’ll murder your hair!” he shouted.
Then he bolted into the night, Parle-G biscuits rattling in his pocket like contraband.
***
The news of the stolen wig boxes quickly reached the Smile and Shine company.
They wanted to take immediate steps to bury the scandal.
So they sent a letter to Rahul.
Two weeks later, he tore it open eagerly, expecting fear, apology, maybe even money. Instead, it read:
Dear Mr. Rahul,
We regret your experience. As a token of goodwill, we are sending you two complimentary bottles of our Anti-Hair Fall Shampoo.
Rahul stared at the letter, his mouth twitching.
“So their solution to my problem… is to kill me faster?”
His fists shook. He could almost hear the wigs in the chemist’s storeroom laughing at him.
He wasn’t going down alone. Not now, not when he had proof.
The plan was clear: blackmail. He would make the chemist confess, on camera, that the company’s shampoo destroyed lives—and hair.
Rahul folded the letter carefully, like evidence, and slipped it into his pocket.
This time, he told himself, justice would not go bald.
***
Rahul stood before the chemist, slamming the shampoo bottle on the counter. This time, he wasn’t alone. He had brought ten reporters and a small army of cameramen with him.
The chemist looked at Rahul and actually smiled. “What do you want now?”
“Your testimony.” Rahul pulled out his phone like it was a weapon. “I have proof of what’s in the box. You know it. Don’t make me reveal your involvement to the public.”
The chemist rubbed his chin, pretending to think. Then he nodded. “Okay. Why don’t you come inside?”
Rahul smirked and waved the reporters forward. Together, they marched into the shop.
The chemist gestured to his employee, who dashed off and returned with a huge box. He set it down in front of Rahul.
“Open it,” the chemist said.
Rahul gestured to the cameramen to zoom in. On the box, in big bold letters, was written “Shampoo.” His heart leapt. He imagined the compensation money already in his hands. He imagined a glorious hair transplant, a head so lush women would fight to sleep with him.
“Come on, open it,” one reporter urged.
Rahul nodded, his palms sweaty, and lifted the lid. His eyes almost popped out.
The reporters zoomed their cameras closer. Rahul turned to the chemist, who only chuckled and, without warning, delivered a tight slap. Two more of Rahul’s precious hairs fell to their deaths with the jerk.
Rahul staggered but forced himself up. He looked again inside the box. A reporter shouted, “Pick it up! Show it to the camera!”
Rahul obeyed, hesitantly lifting one of the items. Flashes went off.
It was a broken condom.
Rahul froze. He looked down at the box again—piled high with broken, used condoms, returned by furious customers.
The room spun. His knees buckled. But then his eyes caught something on the side of the box.
He bent down, turned it around. His heart skipped.
Manufactured by: Shine and Shine Company.
The same company that made the shampoo.
Rahul’s eyes widened in terror. His hands shook as he pulled out his phone and opened his Amazon orders. His worst fear confirmed itself on the screen.
His condom brand also read: Shine and Shine Company.
Rahul’s breath caught. First his hair. Now his protection.
He staggered back, clutching his head. Maybe this was never about hair at all. Maybe they’re controlling reproduction too.
The reporters kept flashing their cameras, but Rahul could only see one thing—his future. Bald. Broke. And father of triplets, thanks to a broken Smile and Shine condom.
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