My father loses arm-hair

all the time.
So that the floor at home is littered with tiny black or white coils of hair.

My hair too tends to fall a lot when I go home. Not my arm-hair, of course, because I can be systematic about its removal (and, uh, sturdy roots and such).

The lady who comes over once a day to clean up after us, then, has reason for disgust. The last time I went home, she stood across from me - beside a wall with two framed photographs of my parents - and struck at her head twice. Then she said "mudi", and pointed to the ground where stray hairs wandered like sheep. I was embarrassed and annoyed. I felt the need to apologise for my hair-fall although the behaviour of my hair, I notice, isn't up to me at all. And anyway, I didn't know enough of her language to express myself.

So I shrugged and smiled.

You remember that scene from The Hours where Nicole Kidman (playing the role of Virginia Woolf) gets nervous and embarrassed around her house-helps?
I feel that way sometimes.