And SO, Did You Have a Good Head?

The Stone, the Egg, and the Heads I've Survived

A journey to an unknown destination is always an apprehensive one. Will there be food? Will there be Wi-Fi? Will I regret leaving my house? And this journey of life becomes quite exhausting at times—like hiking uphill with a backpack full of bad decisions.

Some days, you like to live the most. Other days, you like to end your life (or at least end your work shift). These two opposite feelings are shaped, twisted, and created by the people around you—especially the ones sitting in the big chair with the clipboard. And this is the journey you have to make. You cannot avoid it. So is my journey. Welcome aboard. Buckle up. It's bumpy.

Life just isn't fair. There's a realistic Arabic proverb that recognizes this perfectly: "If the stone falls upon the egg, alas for the egg! If the egg falls upon the stone, alas for the egg!" Either way, the egg loses. The stone never apologizes. The stone never attends sensitivity training. Life, my friends, is that stone. And we are all very breakable eggs.

Today, I would like to write a brief essay about the heads and bosses I have worked under. These people have affected me, provoked me, and—against all odds—helped me become a better person. Or at least a more patient one. Barely.

Over the years, I have encountered a colorful zoo of supervisors. Good, funny, humorous (yes, both), strict, rigid, cunning, boorish, nefarious, sly, lewd, erogenous (don't ask), and various other flavors of questionable leadership. Let me introduce you to a few. Names have been omitted to protect both the guilty and my career.

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The Drinking Head

There was a head who always drank and made other subordinates drink too. Staff meetings were held at the local bar. Minutes were written on napkins. Decisions were made—and then unmade the next morning with a headache and regret. He believed in team-building through hangovers.

The Khuru Head

There was a head who could play Khuru like Degor—minus the accuracy. He could hit spectators better than the target. Villagers learned to duck when he wound up his arm. One time, he hit a cow. The cow is still angry.

The Volleyball Head

There was a head who could smack the volleyball on his own side, no problem. But when it came to kickball? He could kick the ball straight into his own balls. Twice. In one game. We didn't clap. We winced.

The Grazing Head

There was a head who could graze on ladies like cows grazing on lush grasses. He had a favorite field, if you know what I mean. And then he would spare them—like spare parts. Left them on the shelf, dusty and confused. We called him the Tractor. Because he plowed indiscriminately.

The Poking Head

There was a head who could poke into the personal details of others like a dentist with no appointment. He would find faults—only to discover that every finger he pointed had three pointing back at himself. But he never noticed. Too busy poking.

The Barking Head

There was a head who could control crowds like barking dogs—loud, aggressive, and mostly ignored. The problem was, he remained barking himself, even when the crowd had gone home. He barked at walls. He barked at tea. He barked at his own reflection.

The Lesson Plan Head

There was a head who revolved around lesson plans all the time—but never actually taught. The plans were beautiful. Color-coded. Laminated. Framed, probably. The teaching? Terrible. The result: bad teaching, good lessons. As in, lessons on how not to teach.

The Always-Right Head

And finally, there was a head who thought that the boss was always right, and the multitudes were always wrong. One against a hundred? The hundred are fools. Evidence? Who needs it. He once argued that the sun rises in the west. When shown the actual sunrise, he said, "That's an optical illusion." You cannot argue with that kind of confidence. You can only bow and cry internally.



So yes, life is a stone. And we are eggs. But somehow, after all these heads—the drinkers, the kickers, the grazers, the pokers, the barkers, the planners, and the always-rights—I am still here. Slightly cracked, but not broken.

And for that, I thank them. Because every stone teaches the egg how to be stronger. Or at least how to roll away faster.