Experience is like a comb that life gives you when you are bald.

Host: The train rattled through the night, its rhythmic clatter echoing like the ticking of a clock no one could stop. Through the fogged windows, the world outside blurred — silhouettes of trees, fragments of moonlight, passing in ghostly procession. Inside, the carriage was dim and quiet, lit only by a few flickering lamps swaying gently with the motion.

Jack sat by the window, his reflection faint in the glass — older, sharper, his eyes half-lidded but awake. Jeeny sat opposite him, one leg tucked under the other, a small book resting in her lap. Between them, a half-empty flask of tea steamed faintly, perfuming the air with something simple, honest.

The train hummed its endless song, and in that rhythm, the line drifted in like a sly smile from the universe itself:
“Experience is like a comb that life gives you when you are bald.” — Navjot Singh Sidhu

Jeeny: “It’s funny, isn’t it? How experience always arrives a moment too late. We learn what to do only after it doesn’t matter anymore.”

Jack: (grinning) “That’s life’s cruel sense of humor. You lose the hair, and only then — the comb appears. Wisdom always comes in post-production.”

Host: His voice carried the dry humor of a man who’s tasted irony too often to find it bitter anymore. The lamp above them flickered, casting faint gold shadows that danced across their faces like fireflies in hesitation.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point, though. You don’t get the comb to use it. You get it to remember how not to lose the next head of hair.”

Jack: “That’s optimistic. I think the universe just enjoys the joke. Gives you advice after the disaster — like handing someone an umbrella after the flood.”

Jeeny: “But don’t you think that’s still mercy? At least life gives something back — a lesson, a scar, a story. Most people lose, but the wise get the metaphor.”

Host: The train hit a curve, and both of them swayed slightly. Outside, the darkness thickened, pressing against the glass like the shadow of every regret they’d ever carried.

Jack: “You sound like you’re trying to romanticize regret. You can’t trade scars for wisdom. Some wounds just stay wounds.”

Jeeny: “And yet, every wound teaches us how to bleed slower next time.”

Jack: “Or how to stop caring if we bleed at all.”

Host: A thin smile crept across his face, the kind of smile that hides a story rather than tells it. The train rolled through a tunnel — the world outside vanished, replaced by their own reflections in black glass. Two ghosts mid-conversation.

Jeeny: “You’ve grown so cynical lately, Jack. You talk like life’s been nothing but loss.”

Jack: “It hasn’t been loss. It’s been education. Just… expensive tuition.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve paid well. So why still bitter?”

Jack: “Because the lessons don’t refund your youth. You realize what mattered when you no longer have the strength to reach for it.”

Host: The tunnel ended. The light returned, soft, pale, refracted through mist. Jeeny’s eyes — deep, steady — met his in the dim glow.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s why old people smile at young fools. They’re not mocking — they’re remembering what it felt like to be fearless before the comb appeared.”

Jack: (chuckling softly) “Or they’re jealous. Youth is the only time you can afford to be stupid.”

Jeeny: “And experience is what teaches you to love your past stupidity.”

Host: She leaned back, her head resting against the cold glass. The train rocked gently, a lullaby made of steel and motion.

Jack: “You know, I sometimes wonder if experience actually makes us wiser, or just slower to dream. Like it replaces wonder with caution.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it doesn’t replace it. Maybe it refines it. Wonder without caution is chaos; caution without wonder is death.”

Jack: “So, balance. The comb and the bald head — both necessary?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can’t understand wisdom until you’ve lived through foolishness. The comb has meaning only because the hair is gone.”

Host: A faint smile brushed her lips, tender and tired. The train passed a small village, its lights scattered like tiny stars clinging to earth. Jack watched them fade behind, one by one.

Jack: “It’s strange, isn’t it? How we’re always looking back. No one ever says, ‘I’m learning experience.’ They only ever say, ‘I’ve learned.’ It’s always past tense.”

Jeeny: “Because experience is a shadow — it only appears when the light’s behind you.”

Host: Her words lingered in the air, soft but cutting. The train whistle cried in the distance, long and mournful, like a memory stretching itself awake.

Jack: “So, what do we do with all that experience once we’ve got it?”

Jeeny: “We give it away. To the next fool brave enough to listen. Even if they won’t.”

Jack: “That’s the tragedy — no one ever listens. Everyone wants their own scars. Everyone thinks their story will end differently.”

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s what keeps the world alive. Every generation repeats the mistake, and every generation gets the same gift — a comb they’ll never use, but one day understand.”

Host: The wind outside rose suddenly, howling along the metal skin of the train. Inside, warmth lingered, quiet and contemplative.

Jack: “Do you ever wish you could go back, Jeeny? Change something before the comb came?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. But then I think — if I changed it, maybe I wouldn’t have become the woman who understands why she shouldn’t.”

Jack: “You sound like someone who’s made peace with her bald spots.”

Jeeny: “And you sound like someone still trying to grow back hair that’s never coming.”

Host: Her laugh was soft — the kind that doesn’t mock, but heals. Jack smiled too, reluctantly, the edge of his cynicism blunted for the moment.

The train began to slow — the faint hiss of brakes, the rhythm shifting from relentless to reflective.

Jack looked out the window — his reflection beside hers, two travelers carried forward by time itself.

Jack: “You know… maybe that’s the real point. The comb isn’t for the head. It’s for the soul. Just something to hold when you finally stop running from the mirror.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Experience doesn’t fix the past. It teaches you how to live with its echoes.”

Host: The train came to a halt. The door opened to a quiet station — mist curling over the platform like memory itself.

Jack stood, picking up his coat, and paused.

Jack: “You think life keeps handing out these combs forever?”

Jeeny: “Only until we stop blaming the baldness.”

Host: She rose beside him, her eyes gleaming with gentle mischief and truth. Together, they stepped into the cool night — their footprints disappearing into fog, leaving behind only the faint hum of the departing train.

The world outside smelled of earth and endings, but also of beginnings waiting in silence.

And as the train pulled away — its lights fading like fading certainties — one could almost hear the universe laughing softly, handing out combs to anyone brave enough to lose their hair.